


Life, or Something

by pink_ink



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Character Death, Discussion of Past Abuse, Funeral Home, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, PLEASE READ TAGS, Scars, Wakes and Funerals, discussions about death, emotional sex and smut, funeral home as life metaphor yo, loving and healing sex, people with bipolar disorder are capable of healing and stability, scars from self harm, several potential triggers, some canon elements, this is a dark fic guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:12:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian has worked hard on stabilizing after a long period of illness. As he approaches the two year mark, Fiona suggests he get a job. He doesn't expect it to be a funeral home. Doesn't expect to meet a hot apprentice. As he draws himself further into that environment, his life begins to change. </p><p>(aka future fic/funeral home AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As the story begins, Ian is nearly two years past his last serious bipolar episode. Ian and Mickey have not met yet, although some canon plots remain. 
> 
> There are mentions of a past suicide attempt, and well as self-injury. Some may find *conversations* about abuse, rape and sexual assault (both canon and speculative) difficult to read. Things can get dark in this fic. Read tags and use your own discretion. Take care of you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian has worked hard on stabilizing, taking care of himself, and finding what he's supposed to do to manage his illness. Now that he's maintained a place of health for a year, Fiona suggests he look for a job.

It’s too early to be awake, but he is. He was dreaming about life before. Not _before_ before. He stopped dreaming about that a while ago. That feels like a story he was told, but can’t quite remember. He know he likes, or liked, that story. But inside, deep inside, he’s still never sure what parts were true. The life before, what was it like? This is the one he has, now, and he still doesn’t know what it is, half the time. 

The dream he had was about what came between. When the story changed, the book smacked down, a new one opening, the binding cracked. He was dreaming about that time, skin buzzing, eyes spinning, then weighted down so hard. 

The worst, over and over. That place that hurt, where he couldn’t find the ground, couldn’t look anyone in the eyes, before the long scars on his arms, before the hospital. Before the doctor, more pills. Different pills. Before falling asleep mid-sentence from heavy meds every night. Being told it will help him, it will get easier, just need to get used to it. Just a med adjustment. Just a side effect. Angry. Angry. Tossing pills, lies chattering from his teeth. Falling again. Trying again so hard. Just have to keep trying, they say.

Just have to keep trying, no matter how easily the book of matches opens, painful thin pages marking a long line on his thigh. No matter how hard he has to cry his way through it. No matter how hard it is to crawl back to the doctor’s office, head in his hands. Finally broken. Fiona holding his hand in the office, squeezing it. “You’re not a mistake, Ian. Holy shit. You’re not.”

It’s been a year now, over a year, really, since he’s figured out he just needs to do all he needs to do. Do what the doctor says. Do what he can do. Every Saturday, filling up the pill box for the next week. Taking a rest every day. Going to sleep early. Drinking a lot of water. 

Life, or something. 

He woke up sweating, eyes wide. It took him a minute to catch his breath, to hold himself together, heart pounding. A minute to turn his head, look around the room. _Please, please. I don’t want to see anything. Please._ But he doesn’t. He sees Carl’s leg hanging off he bed. He sees Liams face wet with drool on his pillow. He sighs. He hasn’t seen anything in a long time, but he still worries. Will probably always worry, a little. 

*

The first dose will be early, it’s not really a big deal. Ian takes a quick glance at the clock and plans for the next dose accordingly. His hand cups under the faucet, slugs them back. One mood stabilizer, one vitamin. He’s always a little surprised when the stabilizer still makes him tremble. Not all the time, just sometimes. He can’t really figure it out, but he sure as shit doesn’t like it. The shakes are part of why he wants to run, some mornings. Sometimes he trembles even as he runs, some little part of his brain chanting _I’m still here. I’m still in here. You won’t unrun me. Sorry._ Self care it’s called, and he didn’t do it for so long. Look how far that got him. It got him thick scars and pill cocktails that didn’t work because he didn’t give them time to work. Didn’t swallow them. He wound up right back where he started, over and over. Wound up over and over. This shit is a long snake with no tail. It’s one long snake that winds, and there are things he has to do to keep the venom out of his head. 

 

Ian stretches a little, pulls his running shoes on, finds a hat. It’s spring now, finally, but still chilly in the mornings, mornings like this when it’s blue slowly pulling away from the dark, just hanging there, low and secret. By the time Ian is at the end of the block, he knows today is a day he really wants to run. Really, really, really wants to run. His mind perks up. His legs start to move faster. This is the part that scares him. He’s never quite sure if that feeling is real, if he just feels excited about running, looks forward to it. It’s maybe that. Or it’s that he’s getting hypomanic. He’s not so scared of it, now. He knows all the _self-care_ bullshit he actually has to do to head it off or calm himself, or try. But now, right now, he tries not to panic. He’s going to run a while and see where he is at the end. 

Eight miles later, he’s breathing hard, heart pounding, bent over in front of his house. He straightens. He starts to walk it off, eyes squinting in the cold. Yeah, definately not hypomanic. Just had to get some shit out. Up the steps, into the house, shoes off, hat off, bending over again, staring at the dirty doormat.

“Ian?” It’s Fiona, voice bright. Ian can smell coffee. Pancakes. Home. 

“Yeah, what.” 

“Do you still have your shoes on? I need you to go get a paper from down the block.” She rushes over with some change. “Get the Sunday.” 

Ian breathes harder, shakes his head, “Fi, it’s not even Sunday.” 

“No no no, I know. But they’ll have the old one. Need the classifieds. Go!” 

Ian’s feet complain as he slips his shoes back on. “Yeah, ok. Probably should walk more anyway.” 

Out of the house. Down the steps. Down the block. The sky is lighter and lighter, gold painting the shitty houses on the street. Some shitty ones with neatly swept porches, smoothly painted front doors, an old scraggly rosebush, the tiniest gasp of buds forming. But they still are what they are. Strip it away and it’s damaged floors and bars on the back door and too many people in one room, just like his house. 

*  
The Kash and Grab is just like it’s always been, but there’s no Kash.

Ian’s only been here a handful of times since he quit those years ago. He’d be glad to never go back at all. 

Kash was a bad idea, Ian knows that now, now that’s older, now that life is different. He’s glad Kash split. 

Still, being there brings so much of that time back. After that winter, after Linda caught them, Ian drew back and back from Kash, like he was crawling into the linoleum. By summer, he was showing up, putting in his hours, and letting the door shut behind him without looking back. So by the time Kash walked out of the cooler that day, asking Ian to stall Linda, one hour, two, Ian had to bite back a scream. Instead he jutted out his chin, shook his head, and returned to the register. Kash paused, but Ian’s eyes stayed down on the magazine in front of him. He heard the front door open, and the words “Fucking pussy” were out of Ian’s mouth before he could bite them back. It didn’t matter. It was true. The bell on the door clanged, and that was the end of that. 

For a minute, Ian’s surprised that there isn’t some high school kid working the register, but it’s early, and there’s school, but still. There’s no one there. 

Ian looks around, eyes catching the pile of produce, eyes finding the large bags of rice on the shelf. He feels his vision blur, a lump in his throat. “Bullshit,” he whispers to himself. He breathes it out. He clears his throat. “Hello?” 

There’s nothing. 

“Hey, Linda?” 

Nothing. 

Ian’s eyes catch the rows of cigarettes. They catch the Gatorade in the cooler. Fuck this. 

He finds the old Sunday Tribunes right where they were before. He feels the weight, then feels the weight of the one below. Nothing’s missing. He thinks twice about keeping the change, but slaps it on the counter. His hand freezes on the door. He turns. 

“Linda?” 

Nothing. 

*  
There’s pancakes, and coffee, and Fiona at the table. It looks like there is going to be A Conversation. Ian slowly takes his hat off, shoes off again. “Fi?” 

“Hey, have a seat.” 

Ian slowly sits, pill box in hand. He lets his cold hand reach for the warm coffee mug. “What’s up. Something is.” 

“I--” Fiona begins, stops, starts again. “I was wonderin’ if you’ve thought about gettin a job.” 

Ian’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t really get why. He swallows the coffee. He knows they just scraped by this winter. He tries not to think how much of that has to do with him. He shrugs. “I guess so.” He takes a few quick bites of pancakes. He clicks open the long container, opening WED, pulls a thick oval pill out. Swallows it down. 

“Ian, It’s not like, you know, it’s not like something you really gotta worry about right _now_ , but that other doctor said that adding that to your routine might really help you.” 

Ian nods, “I know. I was there.” 

Fiona leans in, just slightly. Ian doesn’t look at her, but he knows exactly what her face looks like. Her eyes so wide and soft, but also saying _you’re gonna fucking listen to me right fucking now._ “Well, it’s not like you’d have to get one right now. I mean, things have been tight, but we always manage to--”

Ian waves her off. The coffee isn’t very hot, but it will do. “I know, I get it.” 

Fiona leans back, reaching for the paper. “I know we can look online, but thought this might work too.” Forces a little smile “Be a little old school? We could get started at least.” 

Ian breathes deeply. He takes a few more bites of pancakes as he stands. “Fi, I can’t do this right now. I’ve gotta shower.” 

“Well, _I_ have to go to the meeting and then I got a lunch shift.” Fiona clamps her mouth shut, shakes her head. “Fine. Fine. I’ll circle some for ya.” 

“Jesus, Fiona. I’m not some kid looking for a paper route.” This is exactly the thing he hates. A sudden rush to control things in his life in the name of trying to alleviate things or control triggers. This is _exactly_ what he hates. What Fiona doesn’t know, what he doesn’t think she’ll understand right now, is that he’s already been thinking about it. Thinking about it when he’s doing the steps of learning how to do all the _self care_ shit. God, he hates that term. Self care. It sounds like masterbation to him no matter how many times he hears it. “I’ll figure it out. Promise.” 

*  
He starts to jack off in the shower, of course. It’s been...well, he doesn’t really want to think about the last time he had sex. The last few times, really. 

When he’s in the shower, breath beginning to stutter and slip, he sometimes feels that feeling again. Water. Sex was like water. It felt like he’d die without it, without his mouth on it, tipping it to his lips. He flowed out of himself. First rain, then a creek with rocks in it where he should have fallen, but didn’t. Then out into Lake Michigan. Even there, the water wasn’t close to enough. 

It’s called hypersexuality, and to him now that almost makes him laugh, but the kind of laugh where you can’t catch your breath and think you’re going to die for a second. The word sounds fun. The word sounds exciting. The word doesn’t begin to touch the way he felt some days, even in the middle of it, even when the water flew too fast, when he found himself too close to drowning. _This guy. That guy. How did he get here? This guy that guy. These guys. Where is he? What he is he even doing right now? Water to his lips, to that guy’s lips. Too many._

It was a mania thing, he knows. He pretends that the water over his head, over his face, each drop sliding off him is one of those guys, or some stupid thing he did, he said, he was. It’s been so long, but there it all is again. They’re all sliding off him and into the drain. His brain tries to flip the stopper into the tub, make him wade around in all the shit so he’ll have to stand in it forever. He closes his eyes. 

Fuck. He can’t. Again. This keeps happening. He can’t stay hard thinking about all that, but it’s the only place his mind goes, no matter what he tries. For a while, he blamed the meds. It had to be the problem. Had to be. He’s never had a problem getting hard in his life. But whenever he starts to touch himself, slow, rough, soft, hard, he can’t feel anything. So much water, there was so much water, and then nothing. Dry. 

*  
Ian lets out a low, tired sound at the pages of classifieds Fiona has spread out over the table. She’s circled some in red sharpie. He wishes she were here so he could point and say, “Hey the red ones are these the ones you think I _shouldn’t_ look at, right?” She’d laugh because it would sound like Before and for a minute they’d forget all of That Other Stuff ever happened at all. 

“Sup,” Carl says, voice scratchy, pancake in hand, smearing it on the plateful of syrup. “You took a long shower.” 

Ian ignores him. “School?” 

“Skipping,” Carl says. 

Ian shrugs. “You get Liam? I have to find a job.” 

Carl shoves the rest of the pancake in his mouth. “What kind of jobs can crazy people get?” 

Ian would slam his way out of the room if anyone else said it, but Carl is different. “I don’t know. Like, calm things.” 

Carl’s gaze is steady. “But what about Fiona’s work? You seemed to like that okay before, like,” Carl’s eyes drop, chin gesturing at Ian’s arms. 

“Nah,” Ian says, “Don’t think I can go back there. Even if they let me, I wouldn’t want to.”  
Carl nodded like he understood, which Ian knew he did. “Gotta go,” Carl says. “Gonna take Liam over to look in some dumpsters. Easier to lower him in.” 

Ian chuckles as they leave, “Have fun I guess.” He knows he shouldn’t have more coffee, but he’s tempted as hell. Orange Juice it is, what with the _self care_ shit. 

He starts straightening the papers. He needs something boring. He needs something with order, but doesn’t demand much. He wants nothing to do with go-go dancing, nothing to do with gay bars. That’s the end of that. Can’t go back to Patsy’s Pies. Could probably be a dishwasher again somewhere. Fiona circled a few. There’s a mailroom job, which makes Ian perk up a bit. At least he has more options since he managed to scrape the G.E.D. together a couple months ago. He calls. It’s taken. 

A look at the clock. He’s good pill-wise for two and half hours, and then he coasts until bedtime. This is the best part of the day. This is when the whole spaced-out-meds-for-constant-coverage strategy he’s trying with his doctor ends, and he can just relax about time. It’s a little thing, but he grabs onto it, likes the bit of control it brings. Order. 

Order. Something with order. Something simple. Calm.

Ian grabs the next page and looks for Fiona’s circles. As obnoxious as it is, she probably knows what he’s looking for. 

And there it is. 

_Immediate : Temp to PT. Must drive. Must be respectful. Apply in person._

No phone number. No name. Just an address. S. Ashland - that’s pretty close. Ian digs in the pill box, pulls out the the next pill he’ll need. _Two and a half hours, okay._ and pops it in the tiny box he keeps by the sink, just big enough for one pill. Ian catches the mirror in the little bathroom downstairs. Checks his face, his hair. Good. As his hand comes down, his eyes catch his arms. Fuck. Okay. Up the steps, reaching for one of his three nice shirts. The green one - always a green one, he’s told.

*  
This is the type of thing that would have been incredibly exciting while he was manic. Hypomanic especially, just enough to be excited but not freaked out. But as he walks, he gets more and more nervous. What is it? Why are those the only qualifications? Is it a mob thing? No, it couldn’t be. Some sort of sex worker thing? He’s been there, done that. No thanks. Is he going to be killed? His scars itch. There would have been a time he wouldn’t have cared, but now, thankfully, he does. 

He’s not sure when he started walking so fast, but by the time he finds the giant house on the corner, he’s breathing hard. Not hard enough to be sweating, but hard enough that he’s really confused what he’s looking at. He can tell he’s on the side of the house. God, it’s not even a house - it’s like a big sprawling mansion. There are three black town cars parked in a gentle curve by two large wooden doors. Are those the cars? The cars he’s supposed to drive? 

It doesn’t look like he’s even supposed to be at this door. Must be some other entrance around the other way. The grass is much too green for this time of year, and he knows he shouldn’t step on it. He backs up one more time, looks up at the windows. He’s about to walk back around the corner when he hears a voice. 

“Hey.” 

Ian turns.

_Jesus Christ. He’s beautiful._

The thought comes so quickly Ian thinks he said it out loud. He hasn’t felt anything. Hasn’t felt anything like this, even a little bit, since - “Hey,” he says back. 

The guy pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He brings his hand up to light one and Ian quickly catches the flash of a tattoo on his knuckle. Ian swallows. The guy’s hand drops as he breathes deeply. He blows the smoke out and as his lips fall back, slip open. Ian has to glance away. Has to look away like he’s 14 and about to blush at a magazine. 

His hair is deep, deep black, and even from the sidewalk, Ian can tell his eyes are bright blue. 

“You here because of the newspaper?”  
Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says, throat dry. “Yeah, the...driving?” 

The guy stares at Ian for a minute. Another minute. Ian isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. He knows not to look away. He feels like that’s what he’s supposed to do, right now. Like that’s what is expected of him. To not look away. To not back down, and the guy won’t either. 

The guy drops his cigarette and crushes it under his shoe. He carefully picks the butt up and scratches his shoe where he had dropped it. For a moment Ian’s confused. Every cigarette butt he’s ever seen has been in an overflowing ashtray or in the gutter. 

Ian’s about to say something, but then the door opens again and a woman - maybe just a little older than Fiona - sticks her head out. “Hey Mickey, I need --” and her voice stops. She finds Ian’s face and smiles. “No way!” She says, brightly. “Redhead! What are the chances? We’re like unicorns, man. Are you here about the job?” 

Ian nods, sneaking a glance at this guy...Mickey, apparently. He chances a few steps up the sidewalk. The woman waves him up and up. “C’mere c’mere. We’re going to have an incoming soon.” 

Ian’s eyes flit from the door to the woman’s eyes. “I don’t, I’m not sure…” 

The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. Mickey? Mickey! What the hell?” 

“What? I’m right behind the fucking door. Just waiting to get a word in, Ava. Any time now would be great..” 

Ava narrows her eyes. “You’ve been smoking. Come _on_ , Mickey. So unprofessional, you know that. How many times, man? How many times have we --” 

“All right, all right!” 

“Thank you,” Ava says, reaching her hand out for his pack of cigarettes. 

“It’s just that-” Mickey’s not done, and Ian loves that he’s not done. “Half the people that come here are just like,” he gestures to the cigarettes. “It’s not a big deal. Not like they can smell it.” 

Ava rolls her eyes. “It depends where you _are_ though. If you’re downstairs, yeah, no one cares. If you’re up in the rooms though --” 

Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes, hands slapping against his thighs. “I’m not even going to _be_ in the rooms today!” He gets in Ava’s face, but it’s more like siblings than a real argument. Ian finds himself smiling wide, even though he still has no clue what they are talking about. “I’m just gonna be downstairs today.” Ava lowers her eyebrows and shhh-es him loudly. 

“And before that I’m going to show him where all the chairs and shit are, and _before that_ I’m going to take him out in the car so he can get used to it.” 

Ian would be lying if he didn’t twitch at the words _“I’m going to take him out in the car.”_ He looks from face to face. “So am I - am I hired or something? I’m confused.” 

Ava nods, pauses, tips her head back, squints with an ear cocked. “Jay’s got em,” she mutters under her breath. “Incoming,” she says. “Jay’s out there, so I better scoot. Fill him in, Mickey.” She pauses again, this time turning to Ian again. “Look…” 

“Ian. Ian Gallagher.” 

Ava smiles. “Okay. Look, Ian Gallagher. This job really, really isn’t for everyone. It can be really tough in pretty much every way. But it’s really important, too. We usually get lots of apprentices, but the last two quit, so here we are.” She gave a little wink. “Happy to meet you, Ian.”

Ian watches the door shut. He must be looking at it for a while, because he hears Mickey clear his throat. 

“Okay,” Mickey says, “Hold on.” He cracks the wood door open and says “Yep, okay. Incoming. Let’s just go out front and get a car.” 

Mickey doesn’t use the sidewalk. He walks quickly over the perfect grass, so Ian does the same, trying to fit his feet in the same places Mickey did. “Look, Gallagher. This isn’t that hard. Just takes some getting used to.”

Ian’s feet find the brick again, so he looks up. 

“Oh god,” Ian says. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Seriously, man. It’s all just errands for week or so, see how you do with the car. Mostly you’ll be helping set up and then break down, helping Jay in the office. Not the big stuff. That’s me and Ava. We do the downstairs stuff.” 

Ian swallows. “Okay.” 

“Yeah? What. You didn’t know?

Ian shakes his head, but he can’t move his eyes. “No idea.” 

Mickey takes a step closer, which Ian can feel but can’t see. But god, that step closer makes every part hair on his arm stand on end. He closes his eyes. “Listen,” Mickey says, softer than Ian imagined he would. He sighs, deep. Almost like he’s annoyed, but there’s something kinder just beneath. "It's weird, at first. But then it's not weird, which sounds fucked up, but it’s true. It’s a good job. Steady. Now I’m downstairs with Ava more, and now she’s teaching me shit. I started like this, though. Driving cars.” He pauses. “So. You in?”

Ian turns to face Mickey, face Mickey’s blue eyes, face Mickey’s perfect lips. 

Ian nods. “I’m in.” 

Mickey gestures with his chin to the first hearse in line. “Let’s take that one. Ava doesn’t like when cars block the sign. ‘Blake and Sons Funeral Home’ my ass. She does all the work. Jay and Matt don’t do shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's new job was a surprise, but he feels himself right at home.

Mickey is the one who pulls the hearse away from the parking circle. Ian smoothes his sweaty hands on his pants. A funeral home. He’s going to be working at a funeral home. Mickey pulls his lip into his mouth as he eases the car out.

“I’ll just get us out of here a second. Last thing we need is some intake seeing you scrape the bottom of the car on the driveway and going right into traffic because your mirrors aint straight.”

Ian’s smile creeps out. He rests his hands on his thighs, trying to control the shake. He can’t tell if it’s nerves or residuals from the meds. He tries to focus on the side mirror as Mickey pulls the car out and around the corner, driving down a bit until the traffic isn’t as fast, pulling onto a side street. He shifts into park, shuts off the engine, turns in his seat.

“Number one, keep the radio off, no matter what. Sure, the backseat can’t hear it. Someone in the family hears you through the window, it’s bad. Ava will have your ass. I know that from experience.

Number two, no food, no coffee, no anything in the car. Not even water.” Ian can feel his eyes opening wider. Mickey rolls his. “Oh, just wait. Someday you’ll consider eating in the car. Don’t.”

Ian feels his body start to move, trying to turn beneath his seatbelt, trying to face Mickey. It’s his body’s decision, but it’s a good one.

“Number Three. Keep all the cars above half a tank. All of them. All of the time. You’re gonna be doing that shit constantly.” Mickey stops to point. “Gas station’s like, two blocks that way.”

“Got it,” Ian says. _Don’t lick your lips don’t look at his mouth don’t do it._

"Number Four. You keep em clean. You clean them every fucking day, man. Just how it is. That ok?”

 _Don’t look too much at his eyes, just look at the dashboard, look at the dashboard._ “Definitely.”

“Number Five,” Mickey says, but then he’s opening his door, stepping out, walking around to Ian’s side. For a second, Ian can’t breathe. Mickey opens his door, motions for him to get out. “Need me to hold your hand, Cinderella? Help you out?”

Ian’s first instinct is to snap at him, but Mickey’s smiling, stepping away, giving Ian room. Ian watches Mickey settle in the seat as he walks around the car, a knuckle barely tracing over the hood of the smooth black metal.

“Number Five!” Mickey shouts from inside the car. Ian does laugh, then, as he opens the door. “About time. Number Five. Check your god damn mirrors. They gotta be perfect. Every one of them. Something happens, you stop the car and you fix the mirrors. You don’t have the mirrors straight, you got a problem.”

Ian nods. “Got it. Mirrors.” _Don’t look at his lips, don’t do it._

Mickey stares at him. Ian breathes deeper as he sees Mickey’s eyes drop to his long hands.  
“So?”

Mickey swipes a hand down his face. “So check your mirrors! I was the last one in here. They’re not going to be right for you.”

Ian tries not to laugh, because he’s recognized the height difference. He starts to focus. The mirrors have two lenses, and they take a minute to sit right. The rearview is large and wide, but the curtains in the windows eclipse the view. “Huh.”

“Now you know why you gotta check your mirrors,” Mickey says. “Lemme see.”

He leans. Oh god, he’s leaning, leaning over Ian’s lap. He’s craning his neck to see the left mirror and oh my god he’s leaning over Ian’s lap. Ian holds his breath, tries so hard not to look down. He fails, eyes falling quickly to the back of Mickey’s neck. The back of his neck. He would touch it, he would kiss it, he would hold it, soft and hard, if Mickey wanted him to. It’s all a matter of seconds, but Ian feels like he’s been waiting for this, exactly this, forever.

“Good,” Mickey says. “Looks good.”

Ian feels himself shifting, just slightly, under Mickey’s eyes, now holding him bright and brighter. Mickey looks at the mirror on his right side. He takes a few seconds, looks back at Ian. Does he look at his mouth? Did he just--

“There a number six?” Ian asks, surprised at how much soft his breath is, how much it wavers.

Mickey’s eyes flick away, find the dashboard. Come back. “Yeah. Number Six. I talk how I talk, and if you have a problem, quit. I take this shit real serious. I don’t like when people think I don’t.”

Ian wants to grab at Mickey. Not to kiss him, not this time, not for this. He wants to grab at Mickey, pull him closer, bury his head in. He wants to say teach me. Teach me serious, remind me what that feels like, remind me what it’s like to feel that strong about something, about anything. All swagger and teeth, new rules stitched up just for you, thick ink underline, spit.

“I get it,” Ian says. It’s not a complete lie. Part of him would remember it, maybe, if Mickey breathed into his hair, reminded him. It’s been too long. Too long for everything, and Ian doesn’t have the balls for any of it. The certainty he had, gone. The confidence he had, gone. The way he smirked, head up, on his way somewhere. Gone. The doctor says it will come back, but he’s still waiting. It’s still so quiet, in him, in here. “I understand,” he says. “I do.”

“Let’s go then, Mickey says, and Ian starts the car.

*  
It’s not as hard as Ian thought, and before long he’s able to get on Dan Ryan without much trouble, minus one merge. They don’t talk much. Mickey says things like over and exit, and he’s over and off and back on again.

“Off,” Mickey says. Ian pulls off, exits at Pershing. He waits to turn and sneaks a look at Mickey, more than just the corner of his eye. He gives up, glances over. Mickey’s thumb is to his mouth, looking out the window, seems smaller, suddenly. Speaks. “Grew up around here.” His voice is low. He sounds almost surprised, like he’s reading something a book someone wrote about his life. Something he didn’t know. didn’t remember.

“No way,” Ian says, trying to temper the brightness that rises. “Me too. I mean, not right here, but, you know, North Wallace by the industrial park. You know where that is?”

Mickey nods. “Okay, turn right and go four blocks, then left.” He says it quickly. He doesn’t turn his head.

Ian turns right, tries to count blocks but watching the mirrors distracts him. “Was that three or four now?”

Mickey clears his throat. Speaks quickly. “I said right, four blocks, then left.”

At the next block, Ian takes a guess and turns. It’s slightly wide, and Mickey’s breath catches, just a little, as he checks the side mirror. “Easy,” he says, just a little pebble of a sound.

The next left is at a stoplight. Ian brings the hearse to a slow stop. “So where’d you grow up? Family still around here?”

“South Wood Street, and no.”

The light turns green, and Ian’s foot eases over. “How many blocks am--”

“I’ll tell you when,” Mickey says.

They drive. Ian sees kids out in the yards, staring and pointing. It takes a few seconds before he knows why. _This why is outside, this why has nothing to do with him. It’s something he can touch, drag a knuckle against the smoothness, clean it up, put it away._ He breathes deeply.

“Over there,” Mickey says. “That place.”

Ian pulls into a spot, awkwardly, but mostly steady. “Mind if I get out a sec?”

Mickey nods.

It’s later in the afternoon already, sun going down. Maybe Mickey could drive back. he’s not quite sure he could drive in the --

Fuck. His pill. It’s time for it. Past time for it. He knows he won’t be able to choke it down. Not without water.

Mickey rolls the window down, but doesn’t get out. He’s staring at the church, his face unreadable. Ian feels afraid to speak, suddenly. But he does. “Hey, uh, is it cool if I go check the door? Think I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure.”

The door is locked. The steps are thick. A sign says something large in letters he can’t understand. Below it, just below, St. Elizabeth Russian Orthodox. Ian gives one last pull. Damn it.

Ian walks around the building. There are lots of tall bushes and stuff over there - maybe Mickey will believe he’s taking a piss over there. He hopes so. He works as much spit as possible in his mouth before popping the pill in. His throat convulses for a second, but he gets it down. He coughs. Fuck. At least he got it down.

When he comes back, Mickey is out of the car, leaning against the hearse, mouth tight, looking like he’s trying to tear apart the church with his mind.

Ian clears his throat again, feeling the phantom pill there, still a little stuck. “You okay?”

Mickey nods, doesn’t move his eyes.

“Do we come here with...do we, like, deliver the --”

“The deceased, Gallagher,” he says, now apparently burning down the church and smashing all the windows, starting with the big round one on top. “We accompany the deceased to their chosen place of worship, if any, and we accompany the deceased to the resting place. We comfort the family, we help them with their loved one’s final preparations. We arrange floral offerings. We escort the bereaved into one of the rooms if they want privacy. We, I mean _you_ make sure the god damn chairs are set up right. Not in some crooked ass row like a wino set them up at an AA meeting.”

Mickey finally looks over at Ian again. Ian pauses before he speaks. “I guess I meant, like, do we come here specifically a lot?”

Mickey drops his arms, shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, not really.” He looks at the church another minute. “Let’s go. I gotta get back and help Ava. I’m gonna drive back, ok? I can show you how to do the chairs tomorrow.”

*  
Two weeks go by. Ian’s braver with the car, but hasn’t had anyone in the backseat (that’s somehow okay to say, he’s learned, at least as far as Ava and Mickey are concerned) yet, which is fine by him.

As promised, Mickey had showed him how to set up chairs his second day, and made him practice moving them up the stairs, setting them up, taking them down. It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. When Mickey caught him squinting and trying to line them up by sight, he came back with a long mess of rope - like a fishing net. “I made this,” he said, and Ian could hear the slightest inch of pride in his voice. He helped Ian spread it out, and it revealed a rope pattern full of squares, each square marking a chair, spaced perfectly. Ian felt himself grinning - a complete surprise his face almost didn’t understand. When he looked back up at Mickey, he almost saw a blush. “There. Knock yourself out, Gallagher.”

Now he doesn’t need the net, and can get all the chairs up the stairs and set up first thing in the morning without even thinking about it. He’s glad making coffee is part of his job. He slips out of the house just after everyone else wakes up these days. He knows getting to the home early is always a good idea, and that coffee will be waiting for him. He bought a new pill box, a round one he can stash in his jacket pocket. He hasn’t figured out what he’ll do when the mornings quit carrying a chill. It makes him anxious to think about, so he doesn’t.

He vacuums. He takes in all the flowers, sometimes. He takes the car to pick up the flowers, sometimes. He’s learning the shorthand. A Car is a hearse. A town car is a Townie.  
So far, Ian has driven a Townie once, bringing a set of teenage siblings to a church nearby, following Mickey, pretending he could see him in the mirror. He has to wait outside next to the cars, motionless, until service is over. When service is over, he usually goes up to help Mickey hold open the doors, let people pour or trickle out. Sometimes he holds large black umbrellas over people crying, someone with wide eyes, not seeing rain until the umbrella come over their heads. Sometimes taking a side of the casket as a pallbearer, if someone else can’t.

An intake is a family coming in, fragile as paper, tissues balled in fists, accepting the cups of coffee Ian brings out on a tray. The cups are short and square, solid china with violets on them. Ian leaves them on the table, carefully removing the bowls of sugar cubes and real cream, setting them aside. Sometimes he asks, quietly, “Tea?” Mostly, people just try and drink whatever is hot in front of them, but sometimes he comes back.

When families leave the intake room, Ian floats back, collects the cups and bowls, quietly disappearing behind a dark door and into the little kitchen. Sometimes Matt is sitting there, reading the paper. Matt still doesn’t talk to Ian with any regularity. He also doesn’t seem to work with any regularity. Jay does most of the intake, but Ava tries to come up as much as she can. ”I’m a control freak, sure,” Ava said, once. “But look at my brothers! Wouldn’t you be?”

It’s late afternoon, evening really, when Ian carries a couple mugs - not the fancy ones, just the old thrift store ones in the cupboard - downstairs. He can hear Mickey and Ava talking behind the blue glass door. It’s marbled, so Ian can’t see in, not that he’d want to. “Hey guys?” Either of you want coffee? Last of the pot.”

“Oh god yes,” Ava says. “Hang on a sec.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, I’ll come outside.”

“Mickey!”

Ian smiles at the sound of irritation in his voice. “I’m fucking - I can smoke! I’m almost done!”

“Ughhhhhh” Ava groans. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best. Shut up”

“Fine. Ian, see you out there.”

The open air feels good. Inside it’s beautiful, calm, orderly. But it’s also dark wood, dark curtains, dark blue velvety couches, heavy lily smell that doesn’t ever quite lift. It’s clean out here - a different type of clean. The kind of clean where he knows down the street there’s crap in the gutter and the gas station cement is full of oil stains. Ian quickly moves the pill box out of his pocket, pops it in his mouth. He uses one of the mugs - a yellow one - to wash it down.

When Mickey and Ava come out, Ian hands Mickey the yellow one, eyes tracing the rim of the mug. He hands the other to Ava, who tries to take it but their hands get stuck together in the handle.

“God, your hands are giant,” Ava says, laughing. “I always forget.”

“Hey!” Ian says, mock-brightly. “I should learn how to play piano! Apparently I’m made for it!”

Ava laughs hard, and as Ian shakes his head at his own joke, he can see Mickey. Mickey with that short, slight blush, mouth about to twitch. He puts the cigarette and lighter in one hand, lights it. Ian almost catches a letter on his fist. An R? A K?

God, those tattoos. He’s squinted so much, trying to figure out what they say. Trying to play it cool, trying not to get caught.

“Give me a second, Gallagher and you can gape all you want,” Mickey says, and passes his mug to Ava. He lets his cigarette slide to the side of his mouth. His hands are strong, but look soft, and he brings them together to line the words up.

“Woah,” Ian says.

“Eh, we got makeup down there. That shit covers everything.”

“Now _that_ ” Ian says, “That is unprofessional.”

Another groan from Ava, another laugh from Mickey. Another laugh from Ian, a new surprise, every time. It feels odd, almost like he shouldn’t, like there’s rust and he can’t quite clean it off yet. It feels good, though. Almost normal. Not like before. It’s like before before, when he could laugh without being a jumbled roller coaster off the rails. When he felt, he hates to say it, better. Normal. The doctor says he’s himself, he’s still himself, but she can’t see who he was before all of this. She can’t feel how it felt, then. She can’t see all that Ian is sure he has lost.

Ava’s phone rings, and she steps away to answer.

It’s always a little weird to be alone with Mickey. Not weird like bad. It’s the way the world zeroes in. The way the world zeros in when he feels...oh, fuck it. He’s attracted as hell to Mickey. He knows it. Of course he is. But he knows - he knows that he just has to get over it. But in the meantime, he likes how he feels about it. It’s new. It’s different.

Ian had Kash, and then everything after. So, so much after. He did everything, after. Everything. But always that buzz, that need, that water. Every man, then, nameless, faceless, gone. Ian a hunter, chasing, chasing, chasing.

He needs this. He needs to feel just this. Nervous.

“The fuck’s with you?” Mickey asks. He passes Ian the cigarette. He finds himself taking it. Inhaling. Exhaling. “You tired or something?”

Ian can feel him, suddenly feel him, all of him, all of Mickey, move closer. Just a bit, just a little sway, one step. He is glad he has the cigarette to breathe around. “No, I’m just thinking. Not tired. Just a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah?” Mickey takes the cigarette back. “Anything about here? You gonna split?”

Ian shakes his head, “Oh no, not like that. No, I’m staying for sure.”

“Good.” Mickey says, without hesitation. He takes one last long drag before dropping it, pressing it down, cleaning up as carefully as before. “You wanna go out after? Grab a beer or some shit?”

Ian’s glad Mickey’s said it all the cement, because his heart is pounding in his chest and he can’t imagine what he looks like. Some excited little kid in a 20 year old man’s body.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian says, and Mickey raises his head, eyes darting just a second before relaxing. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Mickey starts to step forward a little, say something more, but Ava stomps around the corner. How could Ian forget she was there?

Ava’s face is - Ian doesn’t know Ava’s face, but it can’t be good.

“What,” Mickey snaps. Then it’s worse. “Oh shit, what is it.”

Ava’s face. “I need you to go grab a Story.”

“FUCK!” Mickey says, groaning, twisting away, following the line of Townies down the gutter. He sits.

Ava sighs deeply, meets Ian’s confused face. “He’s gotta go pick something up for us and he doesn’t want to. It’s mostly Matt these days, but he’s gone. I’m still finishing up. He’s gotta go because it’s the kind of thing only one of us can sign for. Otherwise I’d send you.” Ava pauses. “Actually, you better go with him so he doesn’t just go and get shitfaced somewhere.”

“Sure, okay.” Ian knows this scenario isn’t perfect, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to it. “What is it, though?”

Ava shifts, crosses her arms. “You mean what is it _really?_ It’s about a bad breakup. It’s been like months and months and months, but still.” She sighs, throws her head back a second. “But he’s just pretending it’s that he doesn’t want to go to the crematory and bring a Story back. This one needs to come back tonight. So he’s just pissed off. He’ll chill out in a minute.”

Mickey’s head is bowed deep against his chest, thumbs reaching back on his neck. Ian can hear a deep chorus of _fucks._

“Wait,” Ian says. “But she, like, works at the crematory?”

Ava nods, “Something like that, yeah.”

Mickey’s walking back, still shaking his head. “This is some bullshit, Ava. Make Matt go. He did absolutely fucking zero today.”

“Matt’s gone, and probably doesn’t even know the way there,” Ava says. She takes a step closer and wraps Mickey in the tiniest, lightest hug, but Mickey bends into it. “You’ll be okay. I’m sorry. I’d go but you know I have to finish this up. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

Mickey pulls away. “I know. It’s fine.”

Ava says, “Hang on a sec,” and she’s grabbing the mugs off the ground, picking up the cigarette butts, opening the door. “Hang on, hang on!”

Mickey’s eyes don’t leave the ground. “You still wanna come?”

“I still want to come,” he says. “Ava said she wanted me to come, too.”

Mickey looks up, takes a deep breath, “No, man. Like, you still wanna get a beer or whatever. I’m gonna need that shit after all of this. We can go someplace by the home after we drop the Story off.”

The dark is rapidly pulling everything together, smaller, pulling trying to cover everything. Ian’s eyes pulling toward Mickey’s. A short distance between them. “Sure,” he says, “Love to.”

*  
Ava had come back with a twenty for drinks and echoes of sorry and i know and sorry again. Even after Mickey spat out, “I’m taking your car, Ava. Not a Townie. Your car. And I’m gonna smoke in it.” Ava said sure sure sure.

So he is. Mickey is. Smoking. He’s driving too fast, the radio off. Ian finds it strange, in a way, because usually just the noise of everything everywhere all the time. Everyone listens to the radio, at least a little bit. Maybe Mickey’s become used to it with all the time driving cars. The quiet does something to Ian. He leans back in the seat a little.

“You’re looking at me,” Mickey says. “Why are you looking at me.” Statement. Not a question.

_Because you’re hot and because of you I’m finally able to jack off in the shower._

“Oh, didn’t know I was. Sorry.”

Mickey tosses the cigarette out the window. “No, it’s fine. Sorry or whatever. I’m just fucking wound up about this pickup. Bad enough I gotta run out for a Story at night, but this isn’t gonna be good. Hate this bullshit.”

Because Mickey said he didn’t have to look away, Ian doesn’t. Should he say it? Not yet. “Why do you call them stories?”

“It’s _A_ Story, Gallagher. Singular. A person is a Story.”

“Aww,” Ian says.

“No, not like that. It’s just some twist on crematory Ava said as a kid.”

Ian forces his face away from Mickey’s. He doesn’t recognize much out here in the suburbs. Not far, really, but not close enough that he knows it. Not close enough to think it’s home. He opens his mouth, starts to turn toward Mickey, closes his mouth.

“What. You’re looking again.”

“Sorry. Just, can I ask you a question?” Ian swallows. He doesn’t want to know, but he needs to know.

He doesn’t want to know, because then the shower will be dry again and he doesn’t like that. He likes the feeling of Mickey’s blue eyes on his, the way Mickey knows who he is and knows what he wants. Ian’s forgotten what that feels like. Mickey is starting to bring that knowing feeling back, bring it back bit by bit, and Ian finds himself putting it in place, however shaky. Mickey is helping him walk home with his head up, hands out of his pockets, looking around. Undressing in his room, he doesn’t see all the ugly parts anymore, not the scars, not the burn marks. His eyes skid right over them. Not erasing, just noticing, like noticing his elbow or his right foot. Brushing his teeth in the bathroom mirror, checking his gums and everything. Pull-ups again in the doorway, sit-ups and push-ups. Why not. Doctor says it’s all healthy endorphins. There’s Ian in the shower, finally gasping, biting back moans, _oh god, oh god,_ and Mickey’s mouth is in Ian’s mind, right there at the front.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Sure. What.”

“Ava mentioned you didn’t want to go because of a breakup?”

One of the things that’s always scared Ian was how difficult silence can be, especially if it lingers as long as this one is. Mickey’s face is expressionless. His hands grip the wheel tighter.  
“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “Sorry. None of my business, I know.”

The lights along the freeway are enough to catch the slight movement in Mickey’s jaw, just a tiny shift to the right and back again. “‘S fine.” he says. “It was over a long time ago.”

Ian can’t help himself. This is sort of thing that bothers the shit out of Lip, sometimes. “She work at the crematory? You met there?” Part of him twists.

Mickey pauses. “We met there, yeah.”

“She still work there?”

A pause again. “I think they all still work there - all the friends too, and stuff.” Mickey makes a sudden exit, turns sharply left. “It’ll be fine, Gallagher. We’re just gonna get in and out and soon as possible. You can even stay in the car if you want.”

Ian isn’t sure if it’s a suggestion or a demand. “Okay.” Neutral statement, he thinks.

Mickey pulls into the small lot. The building doesn’t look like anything. Nothing really stands out. If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t even know what he was looking at.

Mickey seems to read his mind. “It’s just a private one for homes. No chapel rooms or anything.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll be right back. It’ll just be a few minutes. Then we’ll go back.”

“Sure,” Ian says, but Mickey’s already shutting the car door and quickly walking toward the front door. Mickey opens it and goes inside.

Ian gets out of the car, leans against it. Watching. There’s a small window next to the door, and Ian squints. He can see a young woman sitting there. She stands as he walks in. Ian watches his back. He wishes he could see Mickey’s face. He’d know.

Mickey scribbles something at the desk. Ian watches Mickey gesticulate, and the woman shrinks back and shakes her head. The woman steps closer, tries to put her hand on his shoulder. He lets her for a second, but shakes it off, walks down what seems to be hallway.

That’s it. Ian’s going in.

The woman seems like she'd be quiet, but she's very pretty. “You here with Mickey?” Ian nods. “You can wait over there.” She gestures to a couple of chairs. There aren’t magazines or anything. Ian puts his hand in his pocket. He knows he needs to take his last pill soon. Doesn’t want to push it. But he really wants Mickey to still want to be with him. Ian will take all the jealousy he’s holding for this reception girlfriend and at least put a beer on top of it, med advice be damned.

Ian opens and folds his hands. He remembers how Mickey blushed looking at them. Wait, the way Ian thought he blushed. Ian can feel himself going back the month (wow, actually two by now) he’s worked at the home. He can feel himself editing everything, as much as he possibly can. The looks, the feel of Mickey stepping closer to him, sometimes. He thought he knew something. He thought he felt something. Thought they were magnets.

Still, it was good to know he could feel like that. Feel nervous like that. Heart pound like that, in a good way, finally. Good to know he could lie in his bed, looking at the ceiling, picturing every way he’d touch him if he had the chance. Imagining Mickey’s lips on his, breath heavy in his mouth.

Fuck.

He looks back at the woman as she stands, walks, starts to close the blinds on the two little windows. Her hair is brown and partway down her back. She’s curvy. Glasses. Despite tall heeled boots, her feet hit softly on the floor.

When she turns she catches Ian looking. Great. Just great. Now Ian should say something to attempt to make it not so weird, but anything would sound weird at this point.

He doesn’t have to worry, because he suddenly hears the muffled sound of Mickey half-shouting. He can’t hear the words at first, but then he can. “I don’t want to fucking talk about this!” More murmuring, but although he recognizes Mickey’s voice, he’s not yelling anymore.

The woman sighs. “This is awesome,” sarcastically under her breath.

Ian hears the soft click of her boots disappear down the hall. Three murmured voices overlapping. Then quiet. Then the little click click, with Mickey’s feet - he knows Mickey’s footsteps by now - just behind them.

He has a cardboard box under one arm, face taught. For a minute he doesn’t even see Ian sitting there. Mickey starts to write something on a clipboard, head jerking up quickly to check the time first. He shakes his head, breathes out. The woman takes the sheet off the clipboard and stamps it with a tiny punch sound.

“Laura, I swear to God. Eight months. Nine months? Whatever. I still can’t fucking come here without having some sort of bullshit from--” but Mickey’s already stopping as Laura grabs at his hand. She tips her chin toward Ian.

Mickey shifts his feet. “Thought I told you to stay in the car.”

Ian’s eyes feel frozen. His legs feel frozen. He’s confused as hell. “Sorry.”

Mickey’s walking out by the time the word is out of his mouth. One last glance at Laura, and Ian’s out the door, too.

*  
The ride back is weird, too weird, and too quiet. Ian finds some water in the backseat of Ava’s car. He doesn’t care how long it has been there or whose it is. He throws the pill in his mouth, without trying to hide it, beside Mickey. He’s trying to find an excuse for taking it, but Mickey doesn’t ask.

The box sits on Ian’s lap. It’s both lighter and heavier than Ian expected. A Story. Singular.

Back at the home, Mickey pulls Ava’s car around the back, away from the Townies, right next to the little house set far back behind the home. Mickey reaches for the box in Ian’s hands. Ian tries to tamper down any excitement when Mickey’s hand brushes his. “I’ve got the key,” Mickey says. “There’s a rule about who’s in at night. Ava wants this on the table downstairs. So you really have to stay in the car this time.”

Ian’s about to ask why he should stay in the car insteading of getting out, just in general, but he leans his head back, wills himself to not get drowsy, but with this type of pill it’s hard.

Mickey’s out and sliding into the seat again. “You seem tired. I can drive you home. I’ll save Ava’s $20. We’ll just get a beer tomorrow. I’m tired from all the Story bullshit anyway.”

But they sit there. Ian’s mouth opens and closes, questions about to rise before he swallows each one. Stuck in throat, just like the pill by the church. “I’ll be okay. I can take the el. It’s a straight shot. You live like a couple blocks away, right? It’s gonna be an early day for you." His eyes drop and pull up just as fast."Don’t worry about me. I already set everything up.”

And then. Then. Mickey is openly, definitely, absolutely looking at his mouth. “Thanks,” he says, softer than Ian has heard.

Ian leans back toward the window. He can’t get any closer to Mickey. He can’t. He feels himself hardening just from this, and he’s trying so hard to remind himself it’s a waste of skin. He takes a deep breath and opens the car door. Mickey does the same, and they are on the sidewalk, hands in pockets. _Magnets. Magnets._

“I’m sorry about the breakup,” Ian says. “Laura seems nice. Hope I didn’t make things awkward.”

Mickey looks down, “Yeah, she’s nice.” Mickey looks up again, eyes finding his.

The dark covers everything. Somewhere nearby there is music so loud the bass is all Ian can hear. Shouting. A siren. These sounds are the radio to him, something he can relax into. But Mickey, looking at Mickey, he wants to turn it all off. Just for a minute, turn it all off, everything quiet until it’s just Mickey, staring at him.

“Well,” Ian says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”  
“Tomorrow,” Mickey says, quickly.

Ian turns first. He has to walk away. If he doesn’t, he’ll say things he’ll regret, things he wants to hide, he must hide, lock it all up. He’s only walked a few steps when he feels Mickey grab his arm, turn him around.

Ian can’t stop the gasp that comes out off his mouth. Mickey is close, but then jerks back and puts space between them. They both breathe hard, out of nowhere.

Mickey bites his lip. _Magnets magnets_

“What,” Ian says, softly.

“It was my boyfriend,” Mickey says, eyes darting so quickly over Ian’s eyes he can’t follow them. “My boyfriend works there. That was it. I didn’t want to see my ex fucking boyfriend, okay?”

Ian swallows. “Yeah, okay.” He takes a small step back. He can feel his legs needing, wanting, needing to run from all of this. Not to get away, just to feel himself fly, feel himself. Feel himself. Feel what he wants as his feet his the ground again and again. Figure it out, come back, kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him, feel Mickey under him, breathing hard. “Okay, so you’re…”

Mickey’s hand rubs his face. “You can say it, dick. Gay. Yeah. If that bugs you, fuck off. Everyone at the home knows, a lot of people know. Now you know, so quit asking me about a fucking girlfriend already.”

Ian nods. Mickey lights a cigarette, backs up and up until he’s turning away from him. Ian turns and walks. Oh my god oh my god oh my god He’s walking faster to end of the block. But then there's Mickey’s voice, shouting at him from the opposite end.

“Eh! Gallagher!”

Ian turns. “Yeah?”

“I know you are too. I aint stupid.”

The streetlights aren’t strong, but he can see Mickey’s hands raise up to flip him off, with both hands, before he rounds the corner.

Ian stands there a long time.

Series this work belongs to:

« Part 2 of the Life, or Something series


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian both reveal things about themselves.

Ian doesn’t go out for a beer with Mickey the next day, or the next day, or the next. It’s not because things are suddenly strained and awkward. It’s just what’s happened. Part of him feels like he wants to bring it up, but he doesn’t know how. How to bring it up as casually as Mickey did, like it’s not a date. Not at all. 

It’s just as well. Things have been busy at the home. Really busy. Like, Matt has to help Ava do the embalming for once busy. Like, Mickey has to help with the chairs and the trays and the vacuuming and all the flowers and the cars busy. Ian finds himself staying later and later, popping the last pill on the el, having to set the alarm on his phone to make sure he can wake up before his stop. 

*  
One night, Ian stays at the home later than usual, sorting through a backlog of things in the office. Filing and re-filing after he realizes how sloppy Jay has been. 

By the time he gets home, his house is mostly dark, but there’s one light on downstairs. His eyes are tired from filing, really tired, but even he can see that. 

It’s Fiona. Of course it’s Fiona. “Hey Ian.” 

“Hey,” he says, evenly, taking his shoes off, his shirt off. “What’s up.” 

Fiona takes a big breath. “I was talkin’ to Lip. About you. How you’re doin.” 

Ian feels his jaw clench. He does not want this. This is not what he needs. This is not their business. Not anymore. “Why,” he says, finally. 

“He was asking about you, and I was telling him about your job. He thought is was weird, but he seemed to get over it kinda fast, like I did.” 

Ian sits down by the window. “Well good. It’s a good job. It’s calm. It’s orderly. It’s just what I need. I love it.” 

Fiona hesitates. “Do you know you missed a doctor’s appointment?”

Ian freezes. _Fuck._ “How do you know that?” 

“It was on the big calendar. How do you have pills if you didn’t go? You skippin’ em?” 

Okay, now Ian’s pissed off. He doesn’t have time for this. Again. “Of course I’m not skipping them. I called in a refill on the nurseline like a month ago. She gave me two months.” 

Fiona can’t wait to jutt in. Ian can tell by her face. “Well, yeah. But Ian, you gotta be almost out by now. You know she won’t refill it again until you go in.” Damn it, Fiona. She’s got that face on. The one Ian had to see too much, too long. “Office didn’t call to remind you? To ask you why you didn’t show?” 

Ian tries to keep his voice even. “No. They didn’t. Maybe they called with a reminder, though. I don’t remember.” 

They stare at each other. Too long. 

“Ian, do you remember what you asked Lip to do, just after your arms?” 

Ian looks down, down at his arms. He nods. _Promise me, Lip. I start to get bad again, you tell me._ Feeling broken down, guilty, weak. His arms stinging, itching, aching, bandages thick. _I can’t do this again. I don’t want anything like this again. Any of it._ , He sits now, feels a phantom rushing everywhere, falling tight on the scars. _Tell me, Lip. Tell me. But don’t tell Fiona. Please._ Ian nods again. 

“I think you could get bad again,” Fiona says, softly, gently. “Don’t think you’re taking care of yourself.” 

“I’m taking the meds, Fiona. It was a little hard with work at first. I’m taking them on time, though. I promise.” 

“I know, Ian,” Fiona says, quickly. “I know. You’ve gotten really good at meds. I’ve seen you filling up your new container. I know you got a good thing going now.” 

Ian wants so bad to stand, to snap at her, storm upstairs. But that would show her he’s not okay. And he _is_ okay. This is one of the worst parts about this. The part when he’s angry, and Fiona, or Lip, or Debbie, or anyone, think he’s getting sick. _I can be mad when you’re treating me like a baby_ he thinks. _I can be pissed off at Lip for lying to me._

Instead Ian says, “I _do_ have a good thing going now. I thought I was supposed to get a job, get a routine, all of that.” 

“It’s not a routine, though,” Fiona says. “Some days you’re home early. Some days, like tonight, it’s really late. You go to work really early some days, other days after breakfast.” 

“Why does Lip care? He doesn’t even live here,” Ian says, trying so hard to keep his voice steady. “He hasn’t even been here to visit. All he knows is what you told him. I haven’t even been able to say shit. This is the first you’ve talked to me about it. I’m just curious how long you’ve been waiting to tell me you and Lip made these decisions.” 

Fiona’s eyes are still soft, still soft in the way they were when Ian finally cried in the hospital, bandaged arms. Fiona’s face when he cried and said, _I’m Monica. I thought I wasn’t Monica. I am._ Fiona had brushed tears off his face, pulled him in, whispered. “You are not Monica. You’re not.” She had sounded as surprised as Ian was. “You’re not.” 

Now she says, “I’m telling you now. I’m just worried about you.” 

Ian puts his face in his hands, smoothes his eyebrows. That’s always calmed him. “Please,” he says, “Please, Fiona.” He feels like he’s going to cry. He’s not. “Just trust me. I need you to trust me.”

There’s a long silence. 

“Fiona, I’ll call the doctor tomorrow. She can fit me in somewhere. I bet I can use my boss’s car.” 

“That’s good. That sounds good.” 

They stand. Fiona holds him tight. Ian hugs Fiona back, mostly. He knows Fiona wants him to hug back, prove something, promise. He can give her this. Tonight, he is willing to give her all of this. 

*  
It’s strange to drive Ava’s car after all the Cars and Townies. Sure, he’s been in it, but it was too dark, and he was busy staring at Mickey anyway. It’s morning now, and he hesitates before he puts the radio on. There is a water bottle and a little pile of red and white mints on the console. A pile of bobby pins in the door. A hooded sweatshirt and a pair of of red Converse in the backseat, just tossed there. It’s weird, yet comforting, to see a bit of Ava out of order. Ian’s oddly proud of her for this. 

His doctor’s office isn’t too far. As he gets closer, he feels that odd mix of nervousness and dread descend. Even if Ian feels steady and sure of himself (which he is, more and more, now) he still feels anxious once he gets there. Part of his brain is so consumed with acting normal that he’s convinced he’s not. It’s been a long time. Every week to every week to every month to three months. He’s been every three months for over a year. Sometimes, though, he feels like it was just a few days ago when he gets there. Like he’s still a chattering wide-eyed mess, still a slow and teary shell. 

She’s nice. It’s fine. She’s a touch aggressive when she asks why he didn’t show up, but it’s the same aggressive she gets when she sees anything different. That thin scratch on his neck where Liam grabbed onto him in the pool. Just a question, twice, quick. It’s a little test, a quick one. This time she tries to trip him up, that little test. Ian says “I’m really sorry. It’s my fault. I completely forgot.” She’s satisfied with that, this time.  
Nothing has changed much with his meds for a long time. He wishes he could get off the one at night, the one that makes him tired, but she says she doesn’t think so, not yet. 

“I’ve been good,” Ian says. “Really good. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.” 

“Good like happy, or good like you may be becoming hypomanic?” 

Ian fights an eyeroll. There it is again. “No, good like for real good. I have a job and everything now. I really like it.” 

She smiles, “That’s really wonderful, Ian. Nice to have that routine. You are able to keep up with meds okay with that change?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah, it’s fine. I bring them to work.” 

“What are you doing for work?” she asks, smiling, sitting back just slightly. “I assume something calmer than a club?” 

Ian’s laugh is a breath out. “No club,” he says. He doesn’t know why he feels he needs to be a touch dishonest, but feels the lie is small, in theory. “No, it’s a delivery job. Some office filing.” 

“That sounds perfect,” the doctor says. “I’m glad.” She sit up again, squints at the computer. “Okay, I think we’ll just leave things like they are. Three months?”

“Three months.”  
*  
Ian decides to pick up the meds right after, hoping they will be ready so he doesn’t have to spend too much time. Thankfully, they are. It’s a quick swing back at the home. He goes in the side door and slips downstairs. He pulls his fresh dress shirt and his now-familiar suit jacket (Ava got one for him, of course. _You need more profesh style, sweet baby.”_ off the little coat rack where he keeps his stuff. 

He didn’t think this through. 

What is he supposed to do with the paper pharmacy bag? Anyone would be able to tell it’s pretty full. There are four very wide bottles smashed in there. The top is hardly stapled shut. He looks around, almost as if he’s looking for a place to hide them. He’s glad it’s quiet. 

But then it’s not. 

The door - the blue door - the _downstairs stuff_ door swings open. Mickey is standing there in a big robe of a coat. Ian doesn’t know why he expected it to be bloody or something, but it isn’t at all. Still, Mickey pulls the door shut a little behind him, then all the way, the two of them suddenly in a tight spot. Together. 

“Sorry,” Mickey says. “Thought you were Matt.” 

Ian smiles, tries to keep the bag still so it doesn’t draw that much attention. It’s impossible, he knows, but he’ll try his best. “Not Matt. Sorry to disappoint.” 

Mickey’s eyes flit down Ian’s chest, most of the buttons still open. “I’m not disappointed. Matt doesn’t look like this.” 

Ian tries to shove the blush back into his face where it belongs. He fails. “Ava here? I want to give her keys back.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “She’s upstairs, but she’s with incoming. Here, I’ll take em.” 

“Thanks,” Ian says, dropping the keys into Mickey’s palm. 

Mickey pauses. He gestures toward Ian’s hand. “I’ll take that bag if you want. Can keep em back here til you leave or whatever. I got this cabinet back here - me an’ Ava use it for our shit. Matt won’t see it or anything.” 

Ian nods, slowly. What else is he supposed to do? He’s glad the bag is stapled shut. Mickey’s not the type to look, he thinks. He hopes.Yet part of him wants Mickey to look, just get this over with. “Thanks,” he says, and he passes the bag over. “I better get up there.” 

Mickey nods, cracking the blue door open. “Later,” he says, a light smile, and he shuts the door behind him. 

*  
Another long day, but calmer. Ian’s gathering together the rest of the paper pile from the office, boxing them up for the shredding company. He looks around, a contented sigh. Order. Calm. Ian has broken all of this down and made it right. It’s the sort of comforting thing he never knew he needed to stay sane. Literally. 

“Gallagher.” 

Ian jumps, heart a mile a minute. “Jesus Christ, Mickey. Fuck.”

Mickey laughs. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. That’s a bad idea in a funeral home, I know.” 

Ian walks over. “God, my heart’s still beating like crazy.” 

Mickey smiles, “You got adrenaline legs and stuff? I used to get those when I started running from cops as a kid.” 

Ian laughs. “Me too! Adrenaline legs. For sure.” 

Mickey gestures with his head. “Let’s get out of here. Everyone’s gone. Gotta lock up.” 

Ian feels himself swallow. He knows, suddenly. He knows this is the day. He wants it to be. It has to be. 

“Hang on,” Ian says. Gotta get my other shirt - just hanging up down there. He takes off the dress shirt and groans. “God, this heat is starting to kill me. I’m fine inside but-” 

“Yeah, always cold in here. Have to keep it cold,” Mickey says. 

Ian unbuttons the shirt, shakes it out once, and hangs it on the hanger. The coat on another hanger. He tips away from Mickey, just a little, as he slips the light, long sleeve plaid over his tank top. Scars. His scars. He’s not ready for that conversation. Not now. Hopefully not ever. 

“Oh,” Mickey says. “That bag. Hold on.” He opens the blue door, and leaves it open. Ian turns away. He’s not ready to see anything. Mickey reads his mind from inside, “It’s okay. Everyone’s put away.” 

Ian lets his eyes peek into the room. It’s bright. It’s clean. There are bottles on shelves. There are a few mirrors, plastic tables with a metal thing on the floor. 

“Pedal,” Mickey says as he catches Ian looking. “Helps the table go up and down,” Ian nods. “This freak you out? You don’t have to stand here. Can be a lot to take in.” 

Ian finds himself slouching at the doorway. “No, it’s...it’s actually fine. I’m fine. That’s weird, right?” 

Mickey smirks, shakes his head. 

Ian smirks back. “What?” 

“Told you it wouldn’t be so weird. Told you that first day, remember?” 

He does. He does remember. He remembers his surprise, remembers Mickey stepping just a little closer. He remembers his eyes, bright on his. 

“I remember,” Ian says.  
Mickey gets the bag out, brings it over so Ian can take it. Shuts the light off, the blue turning black. Locks the door. 

They stand in that tiny space by the coat rack. It’s just a nook there. Used to be part of a pantry. Now there’s a long space alongside it, where the “new buddies” (another nickname from Ava, of course) come in. Ian and Mickey stay there. Mickey takes his hooded sweatshirt off and hangs it on the hook. As he reaches, his chest brushes Ian’s, so softly it makes Ian close his eyes. 

“Hey,” Mickey says, and he reaches back to touch Ian’s dress shirt on the hanger. “I need to show you what to do with this. Can’t believe I forgot.” He takes it off the rack. The suit jacket too. “C’mon. I have beer at my house. Plus you can see the gayest thing I own.” 

*  
Mickey’s apartment is two blocks over and one block up. It’s above a dry cleaners, but telling from the windows, there isn’t anything clean about it. The stairs have thin carpet on them, but it doesn’t smell too bad. 

“Two of us up here,” Mickey says, gesturing to the other door facing his. “Don’t think she’s ever home.” 

Ian’s been trying hard. Really hard. Very hard. But when Mickey’s neck dips to look at his door lock, he has to make sure his lips are closed. 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when Mickey opened the door, but it surprises him. It’s very tidy, almost minimal. But minimal in a warm way. One soft green chair with curved arms. A small couch with wooden legs. A coffee table, and yeah it’s scuffed up, but they all are. An old side table. A gooseneck lamp. A TV, but nothing fancy, by the large window. A rug at the front door. A long table, there, where Mickey puts his keys in a red bowl. 

“What.” Mickey says. 

Ian didn’t know he was staring. “Oh, nothing,” he says. He gestures around. “It’s just not what expected.” 

Mickey snorts, but it’s not mean. “What, you expect it to be filthy? Full of ashtrays and crap everywhere?”

Ian looks over at the kitchen, sees a small two seat table. “I don’t - I mean -” 

Mickey waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine. That’s how my house looked growing up.” He heads for the kitchen, and Ian follows, still holding his clothes. “Well, like that and worse.” Mickey says, pulling two beers out of the fridge. “You don’t need to hear all that fucked up shit. We’ll save that whole thing a while.” Mickey leans against the kitchen sink. “That okay with you?” 

Ian nods and takes a long drink. He wants to say it. He needs to. “I have--” he says, “I have my own shit too. I’ll save that too.” 

Mickey smiles. “Well, we’ll save all our shit and it will be a seriously fun conversation whenever all that shit comes down.” 

They both laugh. As the laugh slows down, their eyes are focused hard. 

Ian can feel adrenaline rising, but he breathes it down. He can feel himself smile slow. “Thought you were going to show me the gayest thing you own.” 

Mickey pushes off the sink. He walks slowly, so slowly, toward Ian. “I am,” he says. “What do you think it is?” 

Not what Ian expected. “Uh...um…” 

Mickey pushes Ian aside, “Close, but no. Be right back. Get your clothes and sit there,” he says, gesturing to the table in the kitchen. 

Ian sits with his clothes, puts them over a chair. He can see a couple thick hardbound books and a notebook at the other side of the table. He pulls them closer. Something about science. Something about history. 

“What are these books for?” Ian calls out. 

Mickey’s voice is faded, but clear. “School.” 

Ian’s not sure what his face looks like now, but he feels like Mickey would scoff. “You go to school?” 

Mickey grunts. “Yeah, just,” A little thunk. “Hang on, I’ll tell ya.” 

Ian pages though the science book. He expected it to be all anatomy, but it’s rudimentary earth science. “Okay,” he says. 

He’s still looking at the book when something hits the table. 

It’s a fucking sewing machine. A sewing machine and box of, Ian assumes, thread and needles or whatever.  
Mickey’s voice is stern. “Don’t. Fucking. Start.” 

“I,” Ian says. “I have no idea what to say right now.” 

Mickey takes the case off the machine. “Help me move the fucking table over. I need the outlet.” 

Ian does, and he feels his smile spread wider than he’s felt in a while. Possibly ever. Mickey plugs the machine in and attaches a black rectangle thing and sets it on the ground. 

“What’s that thing?” 

“It’s a fucking pedal. Gets the needle up and down.” Mickey turns a little light on. He steps on the pedal a couple of times. “Okay, I need your shirt. And you need to look in the box and find a tape measure and a scissors and a box of pins.” 

Ian carefully opens the box. Everything is neatly put away. He finds the three things and sets them next to his shirt. He starts to close it but Mickey stops his hand. “Wait. Need to look for the color. Hold the shirt again.” 

Ian reaches behind his chair and pulls his shirt off. “Now what.” 

Mickey squints at the needle on the machine and unwinds something and presses a button. “Now you move your chair over here and hold your shirt like a good boy while I pick the right color so you don’t look like a fuckin moron.” 

So Ian does, and before he knows it, Mickey has grabbed his hand holding the shirt underneath the sewing machine light. “Hold it,” Mickey says. “Right there.” He pulls out two little circles with thread on them. “One next to you or one next to me. Which one.” 

Ian can barely breathe. “One next to me, I think.”

“I thought so too,” Mickey says, as he takes the shirt out of Ian’s hands. “Grab my beer.” 

Ian does, and he watches Mickey’s throat as he gulps. _God._

Mickey pulls out the measuring tape. “Questions?” 

Ian laughs. “Why do you have a sewing machine? How much do you sew? How did you learn this? Do you make doll dresses or what?” 

“Because, a little bit, Ava and no.” 

“No, I’m serious,” Ian says.  
“So the fuck am I!” Mickey says. “Now stand up.” Mickey pulls the tape measure from Ian’s armpit to his wrist and presses the tape down the same place on the shirt. 

Ian feels hot. Like, hot for real. “I’m sweaty. Sorry.” 

Mickey is busy measuring and making a little line with a peice of chalk. “Don’t be sorry, man. I like it this way. Work’s so cold and closed up. I want to be able to fucking breathe sometimes.” 

I know what you mean,” Ian says, because he does. Mickey’s bottle is empty. “Do you - should I get another beer for you?” 

“Yeah, man. Thanks.” 

Ian pulls out two more. He hovers in the doorway a minute. “So what’s the school thing?” 

Mickey pauses, takes the beer from his hand. “I’m going to school to keep doing the stuff at the home. It’s like, Funeral school. Mortuary school, basically.” 

Ian’s eyes widen a little. “But don’t you do all that stuff already? I mean, Ava’s been-” 

“I know,” Mickey says. He takes a long drink. “Just how it is.”

“But Ava’s helping you already. Says you’re a natural. Why do you have to go?” 

MIckey takes a breath. “Look, you gotta look at it for what it is. It's a trade. There are people who get into it with good intentions but can’t hack it, like those two apprentices. There are people who were born into it, like Ava and Jay, that want to be there like their dad and grandpa were. Then there are people who don’t connect with at all, like fuckin Matt.” 

Ian laughs, and offers his beer up. Mickey laughs as the clink. 

Mickey rubs the back of his neck. “So it's a trade. Most people see it as a trade. You can learn a trade from someone. Like, I’m learning this trade from Ava. But eventually you gotta get that shit legit. It’s like learning how to be a mechanic or plumber or whatever. Comes to be a time where you have to go to trade school and shit out all the stuff you already know so they can give you a fuckin’ piece of paper.” 

Ian leans back, gestures to the books. “So why do you have to take things like History?” 

Mickey leaves the shirt alone and wipes his forehead with one thumb. “Because it’s just some fucking bullshit is why. I mean, there are lots of classes that actually _mean_ something. Lots of math and finances and funeral history and shitloads of fucking anatomy and and I got all that shit. Good at math, and I read some books on all this because I fucking like it, not because anybody made me. Legal stuff, funeral records, shit you just need to know,” He takes a breath, takes a drink. “But not people like Jay, apparently. You seen that clusterfuck of an office.” 

Ian opens the book again, “No, I mean like why American History that has nothing to do with this?” 

Mickey shrugs. “It’s just that. You need another history and like a literature class and some other sort of english class and the dumb botany or whatever. Those are the only ones that suck. I mean, I can blast through earth science, but the other stuff…” 

“I’ll help you,” Ian interrupts, and Mickey freezes. For a second, Ian has no idea why. He looks down.

Ian has his hand on Mickey’s thigh. 

His. Fucking. Thigh. 

Like, high up. 

Ian wants to stand up, run away. If he doesn’t do that, he’s going to yank Mickey to his feet, push him against the wall, and...and...fuck. Anything. He’d do anything. Anything Mickey wanted. 

“Sorry,” Ian says, softly, and withdraws his hand. “Didn’t mean to do that.” 

Mickey sniffs, just a little. “‘S’ok. Didn’t mind.” He pulls out his scissors. “Thanks. helping me out would be good, Gallagher. Thanks.”

Mickey opens and closes the scissors a few times, and starts to cut along the lines he made in the shirt, just below the armpit. 

“Woah woah woah! What are you doing!” 

Mickey pauses, looks up. “I’m cutting the arms off your shirt.” 

Ian looks at the scissors, still cutting, “But - but I need that for work.” 

Mickey finishes cutting the first sleeve off. “I know,” he says. “You’re still wearing it for work. I’m gonna show you how to do it. You can stay over and try it out tomorrow, and then bring me the rest of em and I’ll fix those too. Might have to make you cuffs. I’ll save these in case. Need to think about it.” 

_You can stay over._ That’s the only part he heard. “‘What about when it gets cold again?” Mickey cuts the other sleeve off. “Then you buy new shirts, man.” He holds the shirt up. “See? Cutting your whole sleeves off in the summer is the way to go.” He tosses it down. “I’ll measure again and hem it up. Then you put your jacket on top and no one can tell. Takes practice, but I’ll help you out.” He puts the shirt down on the table and looks at it once, then looks back at Ian. “What. What you smiling at.” Ian didn’t even know he was. “You, I guess,” he says, and stands up. He doesn’t know what to do, suddenly. “Bathroom?” “Mickey turns the shirt inside out, squints at it, “End of the hall.” Ian figures he’ll give it a try when he’s in there, but nothing comes. He looks at himself in the mirror. His face looks open, soft, his jaw just a little open. He loves this, this calm feeling he has, now. He loves the feel of the water as he splashes his face a few times. The sink is cool under his hands. 

He opens the door, and Mickey is standing there, face quiet, voice quiet. “Ian,” he says. Ian’s stomach drops at the sound of his name. He hopes his face is giving the answer. _Yes. Yes. Yes._

Mickey walks closer, closer. Ian’s eyes are on his, don’t move at all, not even when Mickey puts his hand on Ian’s belt. Not even when Mickey pulls him down the hall, not even when he is breathing so hard. When Mickey is breathing so hard, pulling him back into the room. _Fuck._

“Not finished with you yet,” Mickey whispers. His hand slides up Ian’s body and cups his neck. Ian feels his head drop, breath shaky. He feels Mickey's lips, sliding up his neck, hand steady and rough in his hair. 

Ian gasps. “Oh my god,” he says. Did he say that out loud? He did. Oh god, he did, and now Mickey’s arm is around him tighter. Mickey’s other hand, pushing and pulling against Ian’s shirt, sliding it off his shoulders. 

They both groan as MIckey pushes it off, drops it on the floor. Mickey pulls at Ian’s tank, and Ian’s head rocks back. _Yes. Yes._ Mickey’s mouth finding his, pressing perfectly, making Ian’s head spin as he deepens it. 

“Fucking touch me,” Mickey says, pulling away, just a bit, lips brushing as he speaks. “Touch me.” 

Ian does. He does and he does and he does. He grabs at Mickey’s body roughly, moaning at the quick gasp that comes from Mickey's hot mouth. He pulls Mickey up to meet his lips. Mickey’s lips are soft and pliant, breath clean and fast. Ian’s long hands hold onto Mickey’s hips, squeezing in. Ian’s mouth drops fast to Mickey’s neck, and there is that firm pull against his hair again, yanking hard. Ian understands, can read the deep clue beneath Mickey’s damp skin. His mouth presses in, kissing hard, sucking as Mickey groans. 

Ian switches their positions against the wall. It’s been so long. He wants to feel all of this. He want to feel this, standing up like this, his hands beginning to grab at Mickey’s ass, first soft and then hard, feeling Mickey hard against him. Ian holds his ass harder, grinds into Mickey. He can feel Mickey shake, feel Mickey’s thigh pull along his cock, trying to trace it by feel. 

Mickey’s thigh moves over him again. “Oh fuck,” Mickey groans. “Fuck. Feel big. Fuck.” 

Ian shakes. Mickey looks at him expectantly with hooded eyes. Ian feels himself nod, one, twice. Feels himself grab Mickey’s ass harder, grinding them together again. There are so many sounds, beautiful and strange, a radio between frequencies. 

“Bed,” Mickey says, so fast and breathy Ian wants him to say it forever. “Bed.” 

Ian shakes his head. “One more minute like this. Just need one more minute like this.” They meet and break away and meet again.

Mickey stops. “Shit, wait,” Mickey says. “Wait wait.” 

Ian pauses, lets go before he wants to. “What, you okay?” 

Mickey nods. “I actually - I did need to do this. So quick. Give me a second, it’s gonna be so quick.” He grabs the tape measure, shakes it out so it falls in one line beside them. “Didn’t want to stop. Just gotta do one more thing.” 

Ian doesn’t have time to answer before Mickey sucks at a nipple. Hard.

Ian’s legs shake, his hand comes up, holds the back of Mickey’s neck. “Like that so fucking much,” he says, “Harder,” he says. Mickey does, and Ian lets out a deep, deep sound he feels he’s never heard. Mickey’s lips release. He kisses up and up, harder and harder. Ian’s head is like that thread, spooling out and out. 

Mickey’s fists find his, and then Mickey is stretching Ian’s arms wide, Ian presses into him, trying to center himself as his head dips back. “Fuck, Mickey,” Ian breathes. “Oh my god.” 

Ian’s eyes are closed. Eyes closed, but as he feels Mickey’s warm body slide away, feels the thin glide of the tape measure, he opens them. There is Ian’s fist, still tight in Mickey’s fist. Mickey’s body still, breath silent.

Oh. 

Ian’s arms fall down. “I,” he begins, but can’t say anything more. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, calmly, breath slowing. “It’s okay.” 

Ian shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s really not.” 

“Lemme see,” Mickey says, but it’s a soft question. Ian’s already grabbing for his clothes. “Hey,” Mickey says. “Ian. It’s okay.” 

Ian doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if it’s okay. Doesn’t know if he should believe Mickey. “I didn’t remember about them,” he says. He blinks his eyes. “Can’t believe I didn’t remember about them.” 

Mickey takes a step closer. “Is it, can I?” 

Ian feels himself nod. Feels his arms turning over. Feels the back of his hands rest in Mickey’s palms. His eyes are shut. He doesn’t want to know how Mickey is looking at him right now. Ian shifts quietly, deep nakedness, trembling. 

Mickey’s thumbs smooth the back of Ian’s hands. “Year? Two?” 

Ian takes a small breath. “Yeah, close to two.” 

“Can I -” Mickey says, and Ian finds himself nodding. He feels Mickey’s thumb slide up his wrist, touching the bottom of the scar, lightly. “Nerves coming back? Still feel gross? Numb?” 

Ian nods. “All of it, I think.” 

Mickey’s thumbs travels up a little. “Harder or softer?” 

“Harder.” Ian says, eyes still closed, shifting against the numb feeling rising with Mickey’s thumb. The harder pressure helps quiet the screech of broken nerves. 

Mickey presses in. “You were rough,” he says, very quietly. 

That’s it. Tears pop into Ian’s eyes. He sniffs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I was.” 

Mickey’s thumbs lift off the scars. He slides his hands up over his biceps, tracing his shoulders, finding his neck. He pulls him down. Holds him. Just quiet, just there. Still. 

Ian’s eyes close again, tear dropping out, maybe two. He starts to pull away, but Mickey draws him closer. “Got the pills for this? You need water?” Ian nods into his neck. “They on the table?” 

Ian nods. Ian sits at the kitchen table. The sewing machine still with its little light. Shirt with the sleeves off. 

“Here you go,” Mickey says. “Get you some water.” 

Ian pulls the bag apart, the staple happily giving way. His hand reaches in, finds every bottle. Two types of stabilizers. The weird prescription vitamin thing that helps with any depression dip, anti-psychotic. Things he wishes Mickey wouldn’t have to see. But here they are. 

Mickey comes over, sets the water down. “Sorry, I just wanted to stop so I could measure your arm and double check it. Gotta hem the edges on the sleeve part up. That okay? Then I’ll get it done really quick.”

Ian nods. He starts to stand up, but Mickey says, “It’s okay, you can stay there. Just put your arm out again. Ian does. Somehow the second time is worse. Mickey holds the tape measure. Neck to shoulder. Shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist. “Thanks.” He says, and sits back down. 

Ian opens a bottle, carefully pulls a pill out. He wants to be as calm as possible. He puts it in his mouth, swallows. “Do you want to know what’s wrong with me?” 

Mickey carefully slides a pin into the fabric. “Only if you want to tell me,” he says. “Not gonna push you on it.” 

Ian remembers Mickey’s fingers on him. His quiet voice. “I’m bipolar,” he says, swallowing the lump in the throat. He doesn’t say it often. It took him a long time to say it to himself. “You know what that is?” 

Mickey nods. “Learned about it work. Sometimes stuff like that -” Mickey quietly motions his head to Ian’s arms. “That can be part of it, right?” 

Ian sighs. “Yeah. I had a rough rouple years. It was just a surprise. Our mom was. Is. I don’t know.” He pauses, looks at his arms again. “I’m okay now. I have everything straightened out with medication. If I feel anything different I have to go see the doctor. If it’s little, I can try and pull back from stressors and can usually head it off pretty well, especially the mania.” 

Mickey nods. He pins more of the fabric down. “That’s good,” he says. “Glad you’re able to do that. Must feel good.” 

_It is._ Ian wants to say, but sometimes he’s not even sure he feels that way. He’s sitting there, watching Mickey pin his shirt. He’s sitting there with his tank top off. He’s sitting there with his arms bare. They seem ugly again. It’s all he can see. He focuses on Mickey’s lips, stunned that they were kissing so hard, so perfectly, just minutes before. And here he is, all his pills out, saying everything. 

“This was the, this was the last time I’ve done this kind of thing.” Ian says. Fuck it. He puts his arms on the table, forearms up. “This bad, I mean. This was really bad.” 

Mickey puts a pin in his mouth, nods. His hand guides the material up. U-UP. He takes the pin out. His eyes come up to meet Ian’s. “Brain’s complicated. Lots going on there,” Mickey says.

Ian notices his long scar on his left arm, slightly shorter on on his right. He starts to think about it. Think about how awful he felt about it, after. 

“Gallagher, I’ve seen scars. I’ve seen seen things like this, I’ve seen a couple brains.” He carefully pulls the shirt out from the machine, turns the light off. He cuts the last threads and turns the shirt back right side out. “Bodies tell all sorts of things. Sometimes you just have to admit that you just are a body. You’re a body like the new buddies I help Ava do up. You’re a body like those ones you put all the flowers around. Body like the Story we picked up.” 

Ian’s eyes are on his arms. 

“Don’t fucking do that,” Mickey says. 

“I’m not going to. I’m not going to even try again.” 

Mickey’s voice is quiet. “No, look at me.” 

Ian does.

“I mean don’t fucking do that again. Don’t look at them like that.” 

Ian can feel his jaw clenching, “You don’t know how much it --” 

“You fucking look at those and you remember how bad it got. Then you think about how hard you worked on getting better. How far you’ve had to climb out. You get a fucking new start on everything. Your whole life. If you keep lookin back at the worst, all you can see is all the guilt and the shit.” 

Ian’s eyes drift up to Mickey’s. “I can’t do that,” he says. “I mean, I don’t think I can.” 

Mickey leans closer. “I know. Takes a while. Takes a while before you do that. But you gotta do it. Aint living otherwise.” Mickey puts all the pins and scissors and stuff back in the box. “Look,” he says. “Look, I got scars, Ian. I got so many I can’t even count ‘em.”

“You do?” 

“Course I do,” he says. “The way I grew up--” he begins, but something bright goes out. “The way I grew up,” but he doesn’t finish. “Oh man, that’s such a fucking long story. It’s getting late anyway. I’ll tell ya sometime.” He takes the shirt and stands. “Okay, get this on.”

Ian does. Mickey smoothes his hand down Ian’s chest, squinting at the fabric, pulling last bit of sleeve up and out. Ian looks up at the ceiling. 

“That’s gonna work,” Mickey says. “Show you how to make sure it works in the jacket tomorrow.” 

“Kay,” Ian says, starting to unbutton it. “Can I leave it here, maybe? I gotta get going.” 

Mickey shifts, “Thought you were gonna stay. It’s late. Have to stay in my bed, though. Couch is too small for your giant ass.” 

Ian feels his face start a slow smile. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I will.” He takes another look at the shirt, and the shirts Mickey peeled off him on the floor. Mickey follows his gaze, picks them off the floor. 

“I’m, I’m not sure I’m ready yet-” Ian begins, voice small, staring at his feet. “For this, I mean.” 

“It’s okay,” Mickey says. “It’ll all be okay.” 

Ian takes a step closer, looks up. “I want to be,” he says. “I really want to be. I thought I’d be okay.” 

“Ian, it’s fine. We get there, we get there. We don’t, we don’t.” Mickey motions with his head. Shuts the kitchen light off. 

Mickey’s bedroom is small. The sheets are dark blue, The bed is soft when Ian sits on it. He takes his pants off. He looks over his shoulder. Mickey’s shirt is off. His chest is wide and pale and Ian suddenly wants to cry. Mickey’s pants are off. His boxers are green. Ian looks at everything, every part of Mickey, every part of this room. 

Mickey sits on his bed. “This okay?” 

Ian watches his hand reach out, touch Mickey low on his back. He nods. 

They lie down, both leaving a space. There is a warmth there that needs closing. Ian’s fingers reach out, touching Mickey’s. “This okay?” 

Mickey nods. “It’s okay.” 

Ian swallows. “I want to be ready,” he says, again. His voice wavers. 

Mickey’s fingers lace with Ian’s. He squeezes once, lets their fingers relax and fall apart. “I know,” he says. “I know you do.”

Ian turns, slowly brings his arm up, scar against Mickey’s chest, fingers touching his shoulder, “Can I,” Ian begins. “Can I do this?” 

“Course you can,” Mickey says, hand rising to Ian’s arm, rubbing gently. 

The air is warm, and they can breathe here. Ian holds his arm perfectly still, trying to heal all of those nerves, still trying to find each other, bit by bit, against Mickey’s chest as it rises and falls.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes, part of Mickey's past is revealed, and MIckey draws Ian closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating. Things get pretty dark in this chapter.

“Of course she’s out here,” Mickey says as they round the corner. They are two blocks away, but it’s easy to spot her. “Must have been signing for a bus.” 

Mickey is right. The bus is gone, but Ava is looking down at a clipboard, making another note. It means a new buddy came in from the coroner vehicle, more like a van, but of course it’s called a bus. 

Ava puts the clipboard under her arm and picks dying flowers off a shrub nearby. She’s about to turn when she spots Ian and Mickey getting closer. Her smile is wide and she laughs. 

“About time you two did the morning-after shuffle,” she says, eyebrow lifted. “The tension was becoming oppressive, guys.” 

Mickey’s groan, the sound like a blush. “Not like that. Had to get out the machine to help him with his shirt.” 

Ava shrugs with a smile, looks back down at the clipboard. “If that’s what you guys are calling it these days, knock yourself out.” She laughs. “All I know is you’re upstairs today, Mickey, so you need to cover up that giant hickey. I’m just not sure there’s enough makeup downstairs for that.” She turns to Ian, clicking her tongue. “Ian, Ian, Ian. I’m impressed.” 

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, about to open the door. “Show her the shirt, Gallagher.” 

Ian holds it up and Ava smirks. “Gave it the good old Milkovich tailor treatment, I see.” 

“Damn right,” Mickey says, turning to Ian and opening the door. “C’mon, come check it out.” 

*

Mickey was right. Ian feels a lot less sweaty like this. Mickey said if it started to slip he’d put a little stitch in to hold it to the coat, but it’s working out fine. He’s out cleaning the Townies when Mickey comes out. 

“Hey,” he says, the tiniest smile on his lips. “How’re you doin?” 

Ian’s smile is soft and easy. “I’m fine,” the says. “You?” 

Mickey nods, looks down at the polishing cloth in Ian’s hands. “So you’re okay with everything? He looks up, eyes searching Ian’s face, beginning with his lips. 

Ian holds his breath. If he thinks he isn’t ready, why does he want to push Mickey in the backseat and suck him down so deep Mickey’s voice rattles the windows? 

“I’m okay,” Ian says. “I had a good time. Thanks.” 

Mickey nods. “I did too. Wanted to say you would come over again. Just sometime. If it’s late or whatever. Or if you just wanted to. It’s - fuck, I sound like a fag.” 

Ian laughs. “Thanks. That’d be great. It’s easier to get here in the morning, that’s for sure.” He feels his lip curl up, a wink. 

Mickey must like it, because his face brightens. “Good,” he says, gruffly, but Ian can hear the excitement racing underneath it, just barely held back. “Your stuff’s all the cabinet again. If you get a cup or box or something we can keep some of them in there if you want.” 

Ian nods. “Maybe it’s a good idea. Safe side and stuff. Need them twice while I’m here though, most of the time. You can get em out for me? I’m not eager to go in the buddy room.” 

“Ha! Buddy room. I’m gonna tell Ava. Can’t believe she didn’t put that together. She’ll love it.” 

“Nice,’ Ian says. He shuts the car door he left open, leans against it, cautiously, hoping no one inside can see him. He can see Mickey’s eyes slide down and up and his body quickly, Ian’s pelvis bent slightly forward with his lean. Ian cocks his eyebrow, quickly. “I can see you, you know.” 

Mickey laughs. “I’m not fucking subtle, that’s for sure. Sorry.” 

Ian shakes his head. “It’s ok.” He looks at his elbows, crossed tight against his jacket. “I do the same, sometimes.” 

“No shit,” Mickey says. “Why do you think I wanted to fuck around with you so bad?” The words are hardly out of his mouth before Mickey starts to take a step back. “Ah, fuck.” 

“It’s okay,” Ian says again. He can tell he’s smirking. “I wanted to, too, obviously. You don’t have to -” 

Mickey shrugs. “We can drop it. I know you’re still thinking it through.” 

Part of Ian clamps shut. He feels a cup of dice shake up and down in his brain, spilling out. He tries to look at them, figure out what to say, how to explain. He doesn’t find the words. They fall on a table, unreadable. He keeps his mouth closed. 

“Anyways,” Mickey says. “Brought you this.” 

It’s a small, circular plastic thing with a little tab on it. Ian opens it and sees a scoop of something pale beige and sticky. It takes a moment before he realizes what it is.

“I don’t think you need to cover em up,” Mickey says. voice steady, eyes on his. “I don’t. But if you feel like you want to sometime, there you go.” 

“Thanks,” Ian says, and means it. 

Mickey’s eyes move over the Townies. “Need any help out here?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Last one. What’re you working on?” 

“Jay’s bullshit. Ava wanted me to go over all the books because something’s gotta be off. That guy can’t even add, I swear.” 

Ian is reminded, then. “When’s your next test? Like, with History or Lit?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Not sure, I’ll have to look it up. I know I have another paper in each due pretty soon.” 

Ian nods. “Take a look and I’ll come over.” He hears his voice like it’s outside him. No shyness, no excuses, no fear. Steady. Confident. _It’s coming back,_ he thinks. _It’s really coming back. That feeling from before all That Stuff Happened. He can feel himself before all that. Eyes open. chest out, face relaxed and ready._ He suddenly feels his heart pound. _It’s really coming back. It’s ready to come back._

“Good,” Mickey says, and something in his voice sounds like he’s seen Ian change, just a little, but there. “That’d be good.” 

*

Ian’s not sure how he ended up sitting in the old van with Lip, but there’s no surprise, either. 

“So,” Lip says. “What’s it like to see dead bodies all the time?” He starts to pass the joint to Ian, but Ian waves it off. “Is it fucked up? They smell bad? Do you ever worry the coffin’s gonna tip over.” 

“It’s _casket._ And no.”

Lip twists in his seat. “No to what?” 

“Pretty much all of it,” Ian says, looking at all the crap on the dashboard. “I mean, the body stuff was weird at first, like kind of scary. It’s different when it’s not someone you know. But I got used to it. I still don’t really know how, but it happened. I usually have to put all the flowers around the person, so I had something else to focus on at first. I guess it got easier from there.” 

Lip inhales deeply. “You see ‘em before they get all waxed up?” 

Ian lets his head fall back on the headrest. “Jesus Christ, Lip. You sound like Carl.” He laughs. “I don’t really see the people when they come in. That’s downstairs and I’m upstairs. But it’s nice there. Really quiet, most of the time. The people who work there are pretty cool.” 

Lip passes the joint again. “Makin’ friends?”

Ian gestures to the joint. “How many times do I have to say I can’t smoke that shit anymore?”

“Apparently a lot,” Lip says. A pause. “So what are the people like? Who’d decide to own a funeral home?” 

“It’s, like, this group of adult siblings. Their parents and grandparents ran it and now it’s the three of them, although only two of them really work hard, the other guy comes in and out. Then there’s this other guy our age who’s going to funeral school. He does what I do, or he used to, but now he’s learning how to do other stuff. He’s cool.” 

Lip laughs under his breath. 

“What.” 

“How long you been fucking that guy?” 

Ian shifts. “What guy.” 

“You can’t be serious. The funeral school guy.” 

“I’m not.” 

Lips laughs harder. “That’s bullshit.”

“Fuck off,”

“Sorry,” Lip says, but no way he’s sorry. “What’s his name?” 

“Mickey,” Ian says. He holds onto the steering wheel, his thumbs playing with the grooves underneath. “We kind of - I mean, we kind of started to, but that was like a month ago now.” 

“What happened?” 

Ian shrugged. “Wasn’t ready to. There was so much sex bullshit when I was sick, and I don’t want to feel that way again. Not with him. He’s -” 

“Wait,” Lip says. 

“What.” 

“You said wasn’t ready to.’ You feeling like you’re ready to?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Ian says. “I think I meant at the time. Maybe I am now, I don’t know. It’s so fucked up. I keep wanting to, but then I’m not sure.” Ian reaches for Lip’s box of cigarettes on the dashboard, taps one out. Why not. Lip leans over, flicks his lighter. Ian leans in. For a minute, it’s like nothing has changed at all. 

Ian blows the smoke out. “ The whole thing sounds stupid when I say it out loud.” 

Lip grinds the end of the joint into the can on the dashboard. “It’s not stupid, Ian. That was fucked up back then. Better now though. You sound like you’re doing okay.” 

Ian watches the smoke curl against the windshield. ‘You need to stop that shit.” 

Lip taps a cigarette out, lights it. “What shit.”

Ian’s looking out the window, one hand still firm on the steering wheel. “You really gotta stop talking about me to Fiona.” 

Lip doesn’t say anything, but his eyes drop just a second. “Ian, I can’t see you. I don’t know what’s going on if I don’t talk to Fiona.” 

Grip the wheel, grip the wheel. “Lip, you promised me. You _promised_ me, when I was...I was in there. You don’t get to decide if I’m okay when you don’t even talk to me. Just call me if you wanna know. I’m better. The doctor thinks so. I think so. I’m taking meds. I take them on time. With our job schedules, I don’t always get to see Fiona anyway.” 

Lip is staring at him. Still staring when Ian says, “You can trust me. You have to.” 

Lip nods, inhales and exhales the smoke deeply. 

Ian shrugs. “I’m just doing a lot better. I just want you guys to recognize I’m doing better. Not to focus on being sick. Not to think about that all the time. It’s hard to be around you guys if that’s all you think about. Feel like I’m always apologizing for shit. That doesn’t help. It just seems like I’m crazier. I’m not. I’m better. I’m in a good place now.” 

Lip is quiet for a long time. “I know,” he says. “I know you are. You sound different, even. Like you before.” He ashes his cigarette in the can. “I know that I’m not supposed to say that -”

“S’ok. I think it too, sometimes,” Ian says. “I know it’s bad to, but I still think about it.” 

They are quiet. 

“Gotta go pick up Amanda from school,” Lip says. “Had a test. She’s coming over.” 

Ian nods. The old metal door groans open and shakes when Lip shuts it. 

*

For all his increasing steadiness, it’s still hard to be around Debbie’s daughter. 

It barely registered with Ian, back then, that she was pregnant at all. He remembers Debbie fighting with Fiona. He remembers Carl going to Juvie. He remembers Debbie’s stomach growing. But if he tries to think about details, conversations, time frames, it’s a mess of jabber and flushing pills. It’s a mess of men and men, and nights so long it’s morning. It’s a mess of collecting old windows in the backyard. _We can build a greenhouse! Think of all we can grow! Save on groceries!_

He remembers taking Liam to the dollar store and wandering the aisles for a long time. What was he looking for? He realized a cashier had begun to follow them. _What? What do you think you’re doing? I can’t go somewhere with my little brother?_ But they didn’t need anything from this piece of shit store, anyway, he said. Let’s get out of here, he said. 

He remembers Lip, coming home from school, trying to talk through it. Ian’s pills on the table. He took them for a while after that. Things grew softer, like he was slipping slowly into a hot bathtub. Limbs releasing, warm air in his mouth. 

_Was that the start?_ he thinks, now. _Was that the start of getting better?_

But it wasn’t. He knows it wasn’t. But for a while, there, he thought it was. 

By the time Emma was born, Ian was racing and racing into one wall to the other. Not as bad as he had been, but bad enough that he couldn’t slow down. 

He was excited, so excited to hold her. He couldn’t believe it. _Such a great baby, Debs. So cute, looks just like you! I mean, dark hair and stuff but oh man Debs, she’s beautiful. She’s gonna be smart, just like you! I just know that, it’s one of those things that’s just gonna happen. It will, no matter what.”_

Ian had put his arms out, there in the hospital, there next to Debbie’s bed. Debbie’s chin wobbled. 

“Hey,” Lip said. “Hey, let’s just sit down on this little couch, Ian, okay? Give Debs some room?” 

Fiona sat on the side of Debbie’s bed and smoothed her hair. Emma was six pounds, three ounces and too fragile for Ian to hold. Ian was also too fragile, but he didn’t know that, then.

Ian doesn’t remember how he got outside, or when he understood he wasn’t allowed to hold her. Not yet, they said, maybe soon, they said. Lip was there. Ian had yelled. He ran home, changed clothes, left for a club, looking. He didn’t come home for a few days. 

Emma is nearing two. Her eyes are dark - so dark the pupil is barely visible. She has a smile like Deb’s. Ian and Debbie sit shoulder to shoulder on the sunken couch. Emma walks over to the table in the living room, bringing back random items, one at a time. Each time, Ian says an exaggerated “Oh _thank_ you!” It makes Emma smile winder. “Thank you for this remote control! I love it!” and “Thank you so much for these pens! I’ll use them every day!” 

Debbie leans her head on Ian’s shoulder. “She loves you. I think you’re her favorite.” 

Ian feels that mix of sadness and pride he always feels when Debbie says something like that, which she she says, actually, all the time. “This age is great,” he manages to say. “I love when they just want to help do everything.” 

Debbie loops her arm with Ian’s. “I like that too,” she says. “Remember the day care?”

“Of course I do,” he says. 

Emma comes back with a roll of duct tape. and dumps it in Ian’s lap. 

“You were always going to the store,” she says, “But on the way out, you’d talk to the kids, remember?” 

“They were so cute, Debs. You and Ethel did such a good job.” 

“You always knew what to say,” she says as she releases Ian’s arm.. “You always treated them like grown up people. Not like babies. Not really. I’ve always liked that about you. Not everyone does that.”

“Thanks,” Ian says. “That means a lot.” 

Debbie’s head turns, eyes finding Ian’s. “You were a really good big brother,” she says. 

Ian’s eyes burn. Emma comes over with an empty coffee cup and coaster. Ian takes them from her little hands, saying “Thank you. Oh, thank you.” 

*

The window next to Ian’s bed is as drafty as it’s alway been. Just a month ago, he was sighing with gratitude with Mickey’s shirt strategy, and now he’s thinking about buying new ones. Maybe another couple weeks. 

_Mickey._

Maybe Lip is right. Maybe it’s all in the past. Maybe it’s the last raw, scared part of him, second-guessing every thought he has. _I’m happy. Is it too happy? Is it hypomania happy? Is it okay? Am I sick already? I’m sad. Too sad? Angry because of whatever thing. Is it okay to be angry?_ And then the coldest sweat, the ground disappearing, just for a second. 

He’s been told, and believes now, that fear gripping him isn’t living. He can’t live that way. Scared all the time. At the start, when he first stepped toward stability, real stability, after That Happened and he was in the hospital, he didn’t know it he’d get there. Ever. Didn’t know if he’d be able to let go, let feelings exist. Let them pour through him. Let them comfort him, swimming in calm water, breathing slow and steady, back to life. 

He wants to feel that way, wants to live that way. He’s been walking a long time, and he doesn’t feel as scared anymore. He can feel fear falling away every day. The fear that’s left over is like the nerves in his arms, tender but returning. What’s left is the way he’s ready to step forward and hold his arms out, his scars out. Ready to say _I’m not afraid anymore._

He breaths so deep, lets tears come, there in the dark. Not afraid. Not of feelings, not of anybody. Not of how he feels, deep. Not of what happens to him when he looks down at his arms. It will fade. 

He can see himself, there. This whole time, he’s been trying to get back to something, someone. But he isn’t the same as he was. He’s who he is, now. He can’t run back through all of it, trying to outrun all the ugly parts. Run around his sickness, the fear and the destruction and the risk. They were there. Now they are not. Now it’s just him. Him. And he’s ready to be seen. 

Ready to be seen the way Mickey sees him. The way Mickey has always seen him. 

Ian’s hand reaches up to his arm. presses into the scar there. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to feel it with his hands to know what it looks like. But it doesn’t feel the same. All he can feel, now, is how Mickey touched him, that night in his apartment, at least a month ago. The way he was hard and soft, voice low, holding him. The way his eyes found him when he looked at his scars. Soft, then pressing in harder. Listening. Speaking. Wide chest, perfect lips, breath shaking.

 _I’m ready._ The thought comes quickly, and settles on the smooth skin of his wrist. He slides his fingers up his hand. _I’m ready._

*

The next morning, Ian’s heart is pounding. Pounding harder by the time he gets off the El and starts walking the few blocks to the home. the second of two days off. He’s trying to plan on what he’s going to say when he shows up. Wonders if Mickey will be able to see. 

He walks faster.

He pulls the side door open. He’s panting hard. He tries to catch his breath. He can’t wait that long. He can see his hand rise up, knock gently on the blue window. 

“Hello?” It’s Ava, speaking quietly. It’s not like her. Usually it’s a loud, “Yeah? What’s up?” Today, right now, it’s quiet. “Who is it?” 

Ian licks his lips, squints. “It’s Ian. Mickey in there?” 

Another pause. “No, sorry.” 

“Okay,” Ian says. 

He’d slip a jacket on, but he can’t wait. He takes the short staircase two steps at a time, three quick paces. He looks in the viewing room, one of the side rooms. He hears Jay in the other intake room. He slows down, walks by quietly. Bathrooms are open, elevator dark, kitchen empty, casket room empty. 

He isn’t here.

Ian finds himself at the blue door again. “Ava?” 

Ava is quiet again. “Ian?” 

“Yeah, It’s me,” he breathes. “Is something wrong?” 

A pause. “Give me a minute and I’ll meet you outside.” 

Ian has to zip his hoodie when he walks out. October is coming. More leaves dropping every day. Sometimes a breeze knocks a bunch down at once, a brilliant wave of yellow, red, orange.  
He finds himself inhaling slowly. Not panting, just smelling, trying to find that deep smell of leaves and earth and the cold crawling in. 

“Hey,” Ava says. Her eyes are rimmed red. 

“Jesus,” Ian says, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” 

Ava shrugs. “It’s bad, Ian,” she says, voice cracking. 

Ian legs shake _Adrenaline legs_ Mickey had said that day. The day Ian had kissed him. The day he showed Mickey everything. 

Ian tries to keep his voice steady. “What is it?” His stomach churns. “Mickey? Mickey hurt?” 

Ava shakes her head, crosses her arms. She turns her head, sees the carriage house. Her house. She motions with her head. “Be easier in there, c’mon.” 

Purple walls, silver curtains, empty green glass bottles and a pile of thin scarves in a basket. A chair with laundry all over it. A pile of books. She has a sewing machine out with a big basket, apple-print fabric folded on top. 

Ava’s breath is shaky as she motions Ian to sit on the couch. 

Ian’s stomach drops. “Did Mickey get hurt.” Statement. Not a question. 

Ava shakes her head. “No, not -” she presses her fingers against her eyes. “Did Mickey tell how how he started working here?”

“No,” Ian says.

Ava takes a big breath. “I don’t think he’d care if I told you. Well, maybe he’d care a little, but I need to say this.”

Ian feels his eyes so wide. He can’t breathe. He nods.

“Okay,” she says. “His dad came in on a bus. Three years ago, maybe? Something like that. I’m still not that sure why he even came in. There wasn’t a directive to embalm or even be here in the first place. Maybe there was confusion about us having a crematory. Later that day, someone comes in and asks how much it’d cost to embalm him and have a viewing before the crematory. I guess there was some sort of collection growing. They manage to scrape up enough by the end of the day to get the basic embalming. Truthfully, I felt kind of freaked out. Things seemed pretty rough.” 

Ava stands, grabs a box of the tissues off the kitchen table. She settles back in again, twisting, hand finding a foot. “So we do a quick viewing. No flowers, no anything. Just Mickey’s dad in the display casket. A bunch of people came in. Lots of cigarettes outside and beer and big bottles of liquor. We didn’t even have many chairs. The whole thing was just...It was...it was just really cold and scared me. I’ve never been scared before with this, Ian. But I was.” 

Ian nods. “And that was Mickey’s dad.” 

Ava nods. “Mickey’s dad.” 

“Jesus.” 

“Exactly. So then,” Ava begins. Deep breath. “So then pretty much everyone leaves. By now I’m just freaking, and want to lock the doors forever and hose the whole place down. Then there’s this kid in a chair, right next to the guy’s body. Not moving. Not crying. Not anything.” 

“Mickey,” Ian says, evently. 

Ava nods. “Mickey.” 

“What was he was doing?” 

“Just staring at him. Like, right at his dad’s face. It didn’t even look like he was blinking. He kept clenching his jaw. I could see.” 

“What did you do?” 

Ava pauses. “I can’t really remember. Like, ‘Are you his son? I’m sorry for your loss,’ or something like that. He didn’t look at me. So I just kind of stood there a minute. I wasn’t sure if I should be doing something. I think I started nervously putting chairs away kind of? But he still didn’t move. Finally I was like, ‘What’s going on?’”

Ian feels his eyes tight on Ava. 

“And he says,” she says. “He says, ‘I just need to know the motherfucker is really dead.’ and leans in closer, and his face gets tighter. I thought he was going to spit on him, Ian, honestly. You know he would have, too, if I wasn’t there.” 

Ian nods. 

“So then,” she says, “Then he says, ‘If he’s getting cremated, I wanna go.’ and since I was going to have to drive him out, and family members are able to go, I said sure. So we get out there, and this guy - oh, his ex. Sorry if that’s really harsh, but anyway. He comes to help get him out.” 

Ian squirms. “Out of what? He was in the display casket, right? He wasn’t just, like…” 

“Oh, no no,” Ava says. “You maybe haven’t seen one go out. It’s just this kind of pine box, just kind a little heavier, maybe. So they can go right in.” 

“Gotcha.” 

“So then, Mickey’s just following down the hall, not saying anything. He’s got his arms crossed like he does when he’s pissed right? So we go in and he just keeps looking at the box. You remember how this crematory place is for homes, right? So some places have a little chapel and the room itself is made up to be a little calmer. I mean, it’s not like operators at the one we use aren’t respectful! I totally don’t mean that. They are super professional and very respectful it’s -” 

“Oh, I know,” Ian says. “I went there. Not like, _in there_ in there, but what I saw looked nice.” 

Ava nods. “Thanks. Good.” Another breath. “So then the ex is like, ‘Are you his son?’ and Mickey nods that yes he is. The ex says, ‘Some family members like to press the button that begins their loved one’s body movement. If you wish, you can press this button here.’ and then Mickey says ‘This one?’ and the ex says yes, and then Mickey pretty much punches it.”

“Woah.” 

“Yeah,” Ava says. “Yeah.” 

“So how’d he end up here, then?” 

“Well, he comes around maybe a week later, kind of defensive, kind of groveling or something. He kind of can’t look me in the eyes for the longest time. Finally he’s like, ‘Look, my dad was an asshole and beat the shit out of me all the time. I seen a lot of bodies. I seen him kill people. I’m not scared of bodies like the one you did up of my dad. I just don’t want to see ones like I had to move around in the dark when I grew up.’”

“Shit,” Ian breathes. “I had no idea. I mean, he kind of mentioned his family - like, growing up, but wow.” 

Ava squinches her eyes shut. “I know, I know he should be the one to tell you, but I gotta,” she says. “So Mickey kind of sizes me up, and then he’s like, ‘So could I get a job here, or what?’”

As intense as things are, they both smile at that. It's Mickey. All of it. 

Ava is quiet again. She suddenly covers her eyes and starts crying again. Ian finds himself reaching over her and putting an arm around her. Ian tries to stay calm, but he’s terrified. 

“It’s hard when you have to deal with someone you’re related to in this job,” she says. “I think about that sometimes. How I had to help embalm my dad, and my mom. That was really hard. Really hard. You just want to run away. At the same time, you want to be the one that helps them, helps do that last little bit you can for them. Because you know how to do it, and you love them. It feels impossible to do, but you almost feel like you have to. Because if they asked you, you’d say yes. No hesitation.” 

Ava’s face is messy with tears, and Ian keeps rubbing her shoulder, offering tissue after tissue. 

“I’m,” he says carefully. “I don’t really understand what’s going on. What’s going on with Mickey?” 

Ava sniffs hard, breathes out, meets Ian’s eyes. “Mickey’s sister came in on a bus last night.” 

*

Ian knocks again. Again. 

“Mick,” he says. “Mickey, open up. Please.” 

Finally the door cracks open. The smell of whiskey wafts fast toward Ian as Mickey speaks. “What are you doing here?” He pushes the door the rest of the way open, lets it bang against the wall as Ian steps in. 

There are beer bottles everywhere, a bowl filled with cigarette butts. A bottle of Jack on the coffee table. Ian swallows. “Ava told me about your sister.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything. He goes to the fridge, pulls a beer out. “Mandy,” he says. “My sister’s name is Mandy.” Ian can see the slightest hesitation as he says _is._ My sister’s name _is_ Mandy.

“Mandy,” Ian says. “I’m sorry about Mandy.” 

Mickey sits on the couch. Ian stands by the door, not sure what to do. 

Mickey offers Ian his beer, so Ian sits. Mickey’s face is still. Hardly blinking. Clenching and unclenching his teeth. “That asshole,” he says. “That asshole fuckin did this.” 

Ian takes a sip of the beer. He knows better than to speak. 

“Thought she was in Minneapolis,” Mickey says. “I mean, first she went to fuckin’ Gary with him. Wouldn’t listen to me. She’s seen this shit. Seen what happens. Didn’t care. She went with him anyways,” He lights a cigarette, and as he does, Ian realizes he didn’t smoke in there, before. He never saw an ashtray here, before. Mickey breathes the smoke out. “Then one night she calls me. Sounds like she’s talkin through a fuckin busted lip, begging me to come out and get her.” Mickey swallows hard, but Ian can see his eyes blink fast. “Go out there to pick her up. That asshole almost beat me to death, man.” Mickey bends his head to the side, pulls some hair back, revealing a rough scar. The kind that should have needed stitches but was forced shut with tape. “I got her away though. Brought her home. Eventually he shows up again. Says he’s fuckin’ sorry, he says. I start to beat the shit out of him, but Mandy makes me stop, makes me hear him say Take me back, all that bullshit. She fuckin’ falls for it.” 

By now Ian understands. Mandy’s boyfriend. 

Mickey’s face finds his. He can always read his mind, even now, grieving and still half-drunk. “Kenyatta,” he says. “Her fuckin boyfriend. You believe that shit?” 

Ian fights the nod. He does believe that shit. He’s seen it over and over. “What about Minneapolis?” 

“One night she calls and says a friend is moving out there. That’s she’s gonna go out there. Won’t tell me where. She calls one day. Got a job as a waitress. Happy. Then I don’t hear anything. In the wind for months. I guess,” he says, and he’s blinking again. “I guess he found her. Brought her back here maybe. I don’t fuckin know.” He sets the cigarette down, pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, sniffling. “How’d this end up like this, man? She was - she was -” A deep, shaking breath. “She was my fucking sister. She was smart as fuck. How’d this happen?” 

Ian reaches his hand out, resting on Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey curls into it, pulls Ian’s shirt until he’s holding him. Ian rests his head on Mickey’s head, closes his eyes. _Fuck._

“Can’t look at her,” Mickey says. “Don’t want to see her like that. Feel like a pussy. Can’t even look at my own sister–can’t–” 

“Hey,” Ian says. “Hey hey hey.” 

Mickey’s nose is pressed into Ian’s shirt. He can feel his breath. “Just can’t. Heard the name and bolted. Coroner didn’t remember my last name, I guess.”

“How’d she - how did she end up here?” 

“Next of kin shit on her driver’s license. Number was the home, address, too.” He pauses, holds onto Ian just a little tighter. “Think she knew it? Knew she’d end up here?” 

“I don’t know,” Ian says, hand beginning slow circles on Mickey’s back. 

Mickey pulls his face up, off of Ian, back into the stale air. He’s so small. Eyes bloodshot, shaking. “ME comin’?” 

Ian nods. “She should be there already doing the report. Do you want me to go check?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah, that would be good. Thanks.” 

Ian is about to stand when Mickey holds onto his arm. “Wait,” he says. “Wait.” 

Ian doesn’t know what’s happening until Mickey kisses him. No demands behind it. A thank you. A hand on Ian’s face. Even stale-mouthed, it’s beautiful. Calm. Ian kisses back, gently, before releasing. “Want me to come back when I find out what’s going on?” 

Mickey nods.

“Okay,” Ian says. “Take a shower, try to get some rest, okay? I’m gonna take some of this outside.” He picks up the bowl, the bottle of whiskey, an armful of beer bottles. “Be back soon.” 

Mickey opens the door and leans against the doorframe. “Hey,” he says.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Her hair’s black and she got a nose ring. Likes black shirts. Don’t know what he fuckin did to her, but it would be nice to see that.” 

*

The Medical Examiner is finishing up when Ian comes back. After she leaves, Ava will be able to start. Ian’s only met the ME a couple times. Usually this doesn’t happen. Not like this, this order. But it happens. She’s packing up, nods to Ian as he walks up. 

“They catch who did this?” Ian asks. Part of him knows she won’t tell him, but he’s gonna try. 

“I’m making up a report,” she says, looking at him. Ian tries to read her expression, but can’t. “We’ll see.” 

Ian opens the door, slips down to the blue door. He knocks gently. “Ava?” 

“Ian?” 

Yeah.” 

“Give me a couple minutes, okay?” 

Ian opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I was,” he says, “I was hoping that maybe I could come in. Just went to go see Mickey. Just was - 

“You sure?” Ava says, softly. “Ian, it’s just - it can be really - “

“I know,” Ian says. He wants to tell her _I need to tell Mickey._ He wants to say things like, _“I want to meet her.”_ “I know,” he says. 

“Um,” Ava says. “Okay, hold on. I’ll just - hang on a sec.” 

Ian sees a shadow, Ava’s shadow, moving around behind the blue door. His breath is unsteady. He bends his knees and breathes in and out. _Mandy,_ he says to himself, over and over, until Ava cracks the door open. 

“Ian. If you feel faint, appear faint, I’m going to bring you to a chair.” Ava’s voice is stern. Almost unlike anything he’s heard. “Just let me move you. Okay? Don’t lock your knees up. Just let me move you. Do you understand me?” 

Ian nods. “Okay.” 

She opens the door a little wider. “Okay,” she says. She’s taken off her gloves already, so she holds onto his hand. “Ready? She’s just over here.” 

She’s beautiful. Even like this. Ian can see that something has been stuck to close her eyes. Maybe the ME did it. He doesn’t know. Her hair is blonde, kind of. The kind of blonde you get from stealing things from a store and trying them out. Mickey was right. Her hair is coming in black at the roots, jet black, just like Mickey’s. There is a good three inches there. He checks for a nose ring. There isn’t one. 

Her lips are very pale, the blue coming through. Around her neck are large, deep bruises, two large hands closing, closing. Ian does feel faint, then. Just a little. Ava starts to pull him toward the chair. He lets himself be pulled, like she told him. 

“You okay?” 

Ian nods. “It’s just, her neck. Felt like I couldn’t breathe.” 

Ava nods. “She has a lot of scars, Ian. Lots of bruises. Lacerations to the back of the head.” Her voice cracks. “Looks like Mickey, doesn’t she? Even a little?” 

Ian nods again. “He said,” he begins, clears his throat. “He said her hair is black. She has a nose ring. Likes black shirts. Wants to see that.”

“Good,” Ava says. “Good, that’s more than I thought he would say.” Ava goes over to a shelf and pulls down a gallon bottle, sets it on a counter. “Did he,” she begins, “Did he say if he was coming down?” 

Ian shakes his head. “He was drunk, kind of. I mean, he wasn’t as drunk as he probably was last night. Just, kind of, you know.” 

Ava nods. “Okay. You go get a nose ring and a shirt and I’ll do this. Tell Mickey I’m going to handle everything here. And no money or anything. I’m guessing she’ll be a story? You can ask him, if it’s not too hard.” 

Ian breathes out. He sees Mandy there, sees Mickey in there, see them together, growing up. 

“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll go.” 

*

Ian wasn’t expecting Mickey to be showered and dressed. Wasn’t expecting to see the table cleared off, trash taken out, bottles gone. Windows wide open. Mickey’s at the table, picking at a plate of eggs.

He pulls a chair over. “ME’s gone,” Ian says. “Talked to Ava. She’s gonna pay for everything down there. Wanted to -” It is hard, actually. “Wanted to know if she’s gonna be a story or not.” 

Mickey nods, slowly. “Still want to see her done up, though.” 

“Yeah. Ava’s on that. I told her what you said. She’s sending me out for a nose ring and shirt.”

Mickey pushes the plate of eggs away. “Thanks,” he says. 

“Mickey,” he says. “Mickey, I went in to see her.” 

Mickey’s eyes shoot up. “You did? What’d she look like?” 

“I don’t,” Ian says, quietly. “I don’t know what she looked like before. But she’s beautiful. Looks like you.” 

Mickey nods. “She did.” His hand finds Ian’s thigh under the table, squeezes once. “You going out to look for the stuff now?”

“Yeah,” says Ian. “I thought so. Go over to Damen. Got Ava’s car” 

Mickey nods. “Gonna come with you. I’ll find her a good shirt. Skirt or something. Gotta get outta here, man. Going crazy.” 

*

Ian knocks on the blue door, quietly. “Ava? S’me and Mickey. Got the clothes.” 

After a minute or two, Ava cracks the door open. “Bag?” Ian hands it over. He face falls softly on Mickey’s. “Do you want to come in? Help finish up?” 

Mickey shakes his head. Pulls a pack of cigarettes out. “Fuck no. I’ll be outside til she’s done.” 

Ian tugs on Mickey’s sleeve. He knows Mickey is trying to keep it together. That his gruffness is his distancing. The same distancing Ian feels, some days, when he has to run and run. Mickey’s sweater is brown, beginning to unravel at the cuffs. Threads brushing the FUCK on his knuckles as Mickey reaches up to rub at his eye. 

Mickey takes another breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. He opens his mouth to say more, but doesn’t. 

Ava nods. “Should be soon,” she says. “And I called Laura.” 

Mickey nods. He starts to walk out, and Ian starts to follow. Mickey turns, puts his hands on Ian’s arms. “Just need a minute. Wait here for me.” Question. Not statement.

Ian nods. He stands there. A minute. Maybe two. Part of him wants to go in, see Mandy again. He sits down on the steps, instead. He closes his eyes. He starts to do that thing his doctor told him about, right at the start. Something to slow his mind when it began to gallop, just a little, about anything. _Breathe in_ 1 2 3 4. _Hold it_ 1 2 . _Breathe out_ 1 2 3 4. He was supposed to work his way up to like 7, but this is where he stayed. It’s enough. 

The door shuts, quietly. He breathes the sequence one more time. Mickey sits on the steps, just to the side of Ian’s legs. “What’re you doin’? 

“This breathing exercise,” Ian says. “Breathing in and out. Doctor taught me. It’s basically like smoking without the cigarette part.” Ian can see Mickey hesitate, not with this speech, but with his body. 

Mickey leans his head against Ian’s leg, his temple just above Ian’s kneecap. His right arm reaching through the slight bridge of Ian’s legs against the stair, reaching around to hold Ian’s legs tighter. “This weird?” he says to Ian’s kneecap.

Ian shakes his head. “No, it’s not weird.” 

Mickey’s fingers press just a little harder. “Don’t like touching people all the time.” 

Ian slowly reaches his hand out, slowly slides his hand over Mickey’s hair. “Sometimes you need to,” Ian says. Mickey is still under his touch. “Sometimes you just need to feel like you’re still in there.” Ian swallows. “Feel like you’re–” _alive_ he thinks. He doesn’t finish.

He combs through Mickey’s hair, just another couple seconds, before Mickey’s head comes up. Mickey’s hand drops, just one little clap against Ian’s calf to end it. 

“I bet she’s ready,” Mickey says. 

*

She is, and Mickey’s eyes do not move from her face. It’s been at least five minutes of absolute silence. Ava and Ian stand over by the counter. They can see him, but Mickey doesn’t look up. 

Ian sees Mickey’s eyes leave her face, drop to her neck. His mouth clenches, opens slightly, shifts. “Lots on her neck, Ava.” His eyes come up, and they are wet. “He get her neck?” 

“Yes,” Ava says, so quietly it’s hardly there. 

Mickey’s heels are pressing on his eyes again. He starts to step back, move just a little. 

Ava rushes over, grabs him by the elbow, his back, starts to pull him to the chair. Mickey pushes back, pushes against Ava hard. “I don’t need the fucking faint chair, Ava! Jesus Christ! Fuck off! Do this shit every day!” 

Ava steps toward him again, reaches her hands out. Not to pull, just to rest there, still on Mickey’s shoulers. “It’s different,” she says. “You know it’s different.” Ian watches them like that. Standing like that. Staring at each other. Trust. “This is all there is though, Mickey. This is it.” 

Mickey sniffs deeply. He’s still not that steady. “Give me my chair,” he says. Ava rolls over a grey metal rolling stool with a little back on it. Mickey pulls out a little knob and raises it up higher. 

Ian expects Mickey to start telling stories about Mandy, but he doesn’t. He just keeps staring at her, breath shaking. Before long, tears are everywhere, and he doesn’t try to stop them. Even without looking at her, he knows Ava wants to run to him as much as Ian does. 

Mickey’s hand brushes fast over Mandy’s hair. His chin wobbles so hard. “Fuck, Mandy.” His eyes jump all over her face. His hand starts to slide down, carefully. A finger falls against her cheekbone, tracing her jaw. Over her lips. “What the fuck, Mandy.” But he’s crying so hard they can hardly hear him. 

Mickey leans forward in his chair. At first, Ian thinks he’s getting woozy again. But Mickey’s head is going down and down, and his ear presses against Mandy’s chest. He closes his eyes. Grits his teeth. He stays like that a minute. He pulls up and looks Ava in the face. 

“Sometimes you really think they’re just gonna wake up, huh?” 

Ava starts crying, openly. She nods her head fast. “Yeah, Mick. Yeah, sometimes you do.” 

*

Ian pulls the Townie in behind Ava and Mickey. Something has shifted in Mickey on the ride. He steps out before the car is at a complete stop. His steps are quick to the front door and inside. Laura doesn’t try to hug him this time, just leads him down the hall. 

“Should we,” Ian begins, but Ava shakes her head. 

“He’ll come out when he’s ready.” 

It’s dark outside. The light from the office falls on Ava’s face. “You okay?” 

Ava shrugs. “Just hope he’s gonna be okay,” she says. “It’s hard, after. I don’t know what it’s like for other people, but working like this is hard. You know what’s happening and what’s going to happen. You’re so close to it. Too close.”

Before long, Mickey and another guy are pushing out something that looks like a stretcher, but with higher sides. Ava opens the back of the Car. Ian waits there. He’ll do something, anything, someone wants him to do. 

“Here,” Mickey says, voice even as the stretcher comes closer, evens with the car. “Will, let Ian do it. Ian, hold onto that wheelie.” 

Ian holds the stretcher as steady as he can. Ava and Mickey lift the box and slide it over. 

From there things move quickly. Ian tries not to look around too much in the cremation room. He can’t help looking at that door, though. The big steel thing with a door that must slide up with that button Ava mentioned. The button Mickey had punched when his dad went in. Ian’s eyes find Mickey again. He’s staring at the box, that pine box. Pine box with Mandy in it. 

“Do you want to start?” This guy, this Will, asks gently. 

Mickey’s eyes pop up, angry. “I’ll tell you when I’m fucking ready.” 

Ava whispers _shh shh shh_

Ian sees Will look at him, Will's eyes shifting from Ian to Mickey and back. Ian’s not stupid. He knows this is the ex, but Ian can’t believe Will would even start shit like this. Ian shakes his head slowly. Tries not to snap at him _Now? You’re thinking about this now? What the hell is wrong with you?_

“Okay,” Mickey says. “Okay.” 

“How do you want to do this, baby?” Ava steps closer, just a little. 

Mickey points at Will. "I don’t want _you_ to do shit. All you legally have to do is stand there with your dick in your hand.” But his voice breaks, hoping anger will comfort this, all of this. It doesn’t work. “So go over there and keep your mouth shut.”

Ava goes shh shh shh. 

Mickey breathes in and out. “Will,” he says. “Fuck, it’s just that I really gotta do it.” 

Will nods. “I know.” He finds a chair, a chair by a long counter in the corner of the room, sits. 

“Help me,” Mickey says. Ian holds the foot of the box, Mandy’s feet. “Put it here.” 

Ian does. 

They wait. 

They wait. 

Ava says, quietly. “Mickey, do you want–” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

They wait. 

They wait. 

Mickey is staring and staring at the button. He slowly turns his head toward Ian. Looks at him, eyes wet and quiet. There is a tiny question Ian sees but doesn’t know how to answer. He gives the slightest nod. 

Mickey’s hand finds the button. He pauses there, then presses his three fingers against it, so slowly Ian thinks it might not work. But it does. The door opens and the box moves. 

And then Mandy is gone. 

* 

The ride home was quiet. Ian drove Mickey back in a Townie. Mickey looked out the window the whole time. 

Now it’s the sidewalk, and Mickey isn’t moving. “Mickey,” Ian says. “Mickey, let me help get you home.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just starts to turn, and Ian follows him. He follows Mickey up the stairs. He waits while Mickey fumbles with the door lock. He walks into Mickey’s apartment, still smelling a bit like cigarettes, but cold from all the windows open. Ian walks around, sliding them shut, one by one. He turns, and Mickey’s watching him. He watches Ian shut the windows in the living room, one, two, three. 

“You need anything?” Ian keeps his voice soft. Neutral. 

Mickey nods. “Need you to stay here. Otherwise I’m gonna do something stupid.” 

Ian breathes. In out. “Okay,” he says. “Be happy to.” 

Mickey’s room is cold. Ian shuts the window, and when he turns back, Mickey is slipping clothes off, climbing into bed. Ian finds another blanket on a chair. He covers Mickey, who rolls onto his side, doesn’t complain. 

Ian slips his clothes off, sliding behind Mickey, a small space, eyes tracing the freckles on Mickey’s back. Watching his breath shake, steady, shake, over and over. 

Mickey reaches a hand back. “Come here,” so Ian does. “Closer,” he says, so Ian does. Get your arm around tighter,” he says, so Ian does. 

Ian breathes deep, holds it _breathe in 1 2 3 4, hold 1 2 breathe out 1 2 3 4_ his chest presses against Mickey’s back. He feels Mickey relaxing, bit by bit, until Ian thinks he’s asleep. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says, so quiet. He touches Ian’s arm, pulls it closer. “Helps.” 

Ian nods into Mickey’s shoulder. “Sure,” he says. 

After a long pause, Mickey says, “Mandy would’ve loved you. Would have made you be her best friend. Wish you coulda met her. You know, before all the shit happened.” 

“I would have liked that,” Ian says. 

Mickey rolls in and over just a little bit more, and he falls asleep. Ian can feel his breath drop, slow and deep. Ian closes his eyes. _1 2 3 4, 1 2, 1 2 3 4_ over and over. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. He stares into Mickey’s hair. So dark. Dark like Mandy’s roots, like Mandy, after. He looks at the curve of Mickey’s ear, the slide of his cheek. So quiet. _1 2 3 4_ over and over. He holds Mickey tighter, breathes into his hair, holds him like _1 2 and 1 2 and 1 2_ until he falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Kenyatta's trial, Ian and Mickey talk about their own violent histories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter describes or alludes to several instances of rape and other acts of violence. Some are canon, some are speculative. Use your own discretion.

It doesn’t really matter what the shirt looks like, because Mickey says after today, after this last day, there’s no way he’s going to even wear it again. Doesn’t matter what the tie looks like, either. He’s gone as far to say he’s “gonna burn that shit in the yard,” but never quite specifies whose yard. 

So even though Ian thinks he looks especially handsome, he knows it won’t last. With this, Mickey’s _handsome_ , not hot. It’s beyond hot - the word doesn’t fit. Handsome. But he tries to remember why it’s important to get rid of it all. Tries to remember as he straightens Mickey’s tie on the way out the door, hands lingering just slightly as Mickey shifts his feet, impatient. 

“We need to fucking go,” Mickey says, “Gallagher, he have to fucking go.” His eyes are darting all over the place, tongue pressing into his cheek. 

“Plenty of time,” Ian says, softly but firmly. 

“El’s been fucked lately,” Mickey says, pulling away to look at himself in the hallway mirror, smoothing his hair. 

“Ava said we can take a Townie.” 

Mickey freezes, and Ian can see the slight spark in his eyes. “She did? No shit?”

“No shit,” Ian says. He opens the door, grabs Mickey’s keys from the red bowl. “We can go now though. Know you like to get there early.” 

For a minute, Mickey looks like he might want to kiss him. Ian holds his breath. Mickey’s eyes flit up and down, quickly. “Thanks,” he says, impressed. “Thanks, man.” 

When they get to the car, Ian walks around to the passenger side and opens the door for Mickey. Mickey shoots him a look, rolls his eyes. “You takin’ me on a date?” 

Ian laughs. “Work reflex,” he says. “Still nice though, right? Hmm? Come on. Admit it. It’s nice.” 

Mickey groans as he sits. “Fine. Yes. It’s nice.” 

Ian laughs, just a little, under his breath. It’s gonna be the last laughing today. He can tell. 

*

Kenyatta’s huge. Mickey had told him as much, but it’s still strange to see him in person. He’s seen him four times now, each step of this process, but each time feels like the first. Each time a short view of his hands, in cuffs, as we walks in. The same hands that were around Mandy’s neck. It’s been two months, but Ian remembers it like yesterday. 

Six weeks had passed since the bench trial. It wasn’t like Law and Order. There were words, but it just wasn’t what he thought it would be. The bench trial did not have a jury. Just everybody in a room. Kenyatta in orange. Mickey gritting his teeth in that shirt he's promised to burn, Ian’s hand on his knee. 

Six weeks. It felt like forever, but it’s the fastest things happen. The state prosecutor tried her best to prepare Mickey for the sentencing. It could be only three years, maybe four. 

Ian had to sleep over at Mickey’s again when he heard that. Mickey got drunk on his couch, but at least he didn’t leave the apartment. That was the night Ian heard story after story. The times Mandy picked him up from juvie. The times Mandy distracted their dad when he was on one of his benders, looking for Mickey. Always Mickey. 

Ian had hesitated. “What about your dad? Why was he always looking for you?” It was hardly out of his mouth before Mickey stood and stumbled to the bathroom, vomiting violently. 

So there they are, Kenyatta in the orange. As the judge sits, Ian finds his hand slowly reaching for Mickey’s. Mickey shakes it off, almost angrily, before slowly reaching for it again, bringing it back to rest in his lap. Sighs. 

Twelve years. Seven that he needs to finish without parole. He’ll have an open file. No credit for time served. It’s more than expected. Mickey stands, doesn’t wait, doesn’t look at anyone. Ian sits for a few minutes. He doesn’t want to crowd him. It’s like Ava said, back when he went into the crematory. _“He’ll come out when he’s ready."_

It’s probably about fifteen minutes before Mickey comes back in. He smells like fresh cigarette smoke and he’s loosened his tie. “You need to come over,” he says. “I need,” he says. “I _want_ you to come over.” 

“Sure,” Ian says. He hesitates. “I can for like two hours, but then I need to go over and help Jay with some stuff, but that shouldn’t take that much longer.” 

Mickey stands. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Whatever.” 

“Mickey –”

“I’ll take the El,” Mickey says. “Don’t matter what I look like now anyways.” _Don’t_ Ian thinks, but Mickey doesn’t turn around. 

*

“I still think I could scale the seroquel back,” Ian says. “Just feel like I don’t need as much of it. I’ve been doing so good.” 

The doctor pushes back in her chair, sizing Ian up. “Ian, you’re stabilized. It took a long time for you to truly stabilize. You’ve been doing great. It’s been two years of stability, minus a tiny tweak. You passed the two year mark, which is a huge accomplishment. You should be very, very proud of all the hard work you’ve done.” 

Ian pauses before he leans forward, just slightly. “It’s just –” he begins. “I know the side effects are better. But I still get sleepy, and sleepy too fast. I just want to, you know, not have that happen so fast.” 

“Ian,” she says. “We _did_ talk about shifting the time forward a few hours. You don’t need to take it so early in the evening for the benefits to carry over. Are you still doing that? You could probably shift back another hour, if you can be alert in the morning.” 

“I know,” Ian says. He’s trying to be very calm. “I’ve been doing that. It was worse when it was at 8 or whatever, and I’m still taking it around 10:30 most of the time. I just remember when I took the 200, I didn’t get as tired. Even with the 200xr I didn’t get like this.” 

The doctor’s chair moves forward. She pauses. Speaks. “Did the 200 work for you? Were you able to stay at 200 and not become hypomanic?”

Ian looks down, shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, I couldn’t.” 

“That’s our answer, Ian,” she says. “I know you don’t like it. But this specific combination took us months and months to find, and needed to be adjusted again after your suicide attempt.” Ian shifts in his seat. It’s always hard to hear it like that. So plain. “We can’t turn around and adjust because some side effects have, to a smaller extent, remained frustrating. Perhaps we can adjust, slowly, at a later time. For now, Ian, we have to stay the course. Can you see where I’m coming from? Are you still willing to take your medications if this cannot be changed?” 

There’s something so deeply obnoxious and infantilizing when this sort of shit happens. It’s the same kind of feeling that helped pill tossing become a daily occurrence. If he were experiencing mania paranoia, he would be convinced the doctor and Fiona are in cahoots. Plotting against him. Maybe run away. 

This is not like that feeling, and Ian is overwhelmingly relieved to be able to tell the difference. But that does not relieve what he’s feeling now. Tongue-biting frustration. The annoyances that are always there. Yet he knows, deeply and realistically, that this is part of why he’s able to grip on again, and to loosen his grip is to fall again, and he doesn’t want to. Right now, looking at his hands, he knows he doesn’t want to go back. Can’t go back. And this is part of not going back. Circle closed.

It’s not all the medications, the visits, the timing. Part of him automatically puts any comments like these in context. He’s even grateful for the reminders, sometimes. 

Yet there’s another part of him - the part that isn’t his brain, not the tight reins his brain holds onto, now. It’s something else. Somewhere else. The feeling, the implication, that his life is not his. That his life needs so much managing that there’s no room for him left. No room for him in his life, whatever it’s become. 

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Good,” the doctor says. She leans toward the computer, clicks around to refill his prescriptions. “Anything else for me?” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. She’s not a therapist. He knows that. She’s told him over and over he should go to one. That she’s not a therapist. After a while, she realized he’d never go. Just another person to let in to his space, just more money spent, and he can’t do either. He doesn’t say much, because he knows she doesn’t have the time. But sometimes he can’t help it.

“I,” he says. “Um, I met someone.” 

She looks at him a minute. “Met someone?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “Like, someone I’m interested in. Like, you know–” 

“Romantically? Sexually?” 

Ian feels the slightest flush in his cheeks, but his voice is confident. “Yeah. I mean, both, I guess.” 

“Does this person know about your feelings? Has there been any conversation with them about it?” 

“I think so. We had a weird conversation after we kind of, you know, were kind of getting close to something, but we haven’t talked about it since.

“Hmm,” the doctor says. She squints. “Do they know about your history? Anything about bipolar, your breaks, anything?” 

Ian realizes they’ve been speaking in awkward pronouns. “Um, yeah. He saw my arms, and that’s kind of what stopped it. He wasn’t weirded out. He was really nice about it, actually. Just felt bad for me or something.” 

“Felt bad for you? Was that okay?” 

Ian shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess. He was just... gentle about it. I had my meds with me so I just took the seroquel and told him about it. Not about what it would do, really. I just said I was bipolar. That was pretty much it. He said he knew what it was, so I just dropped it. But then I kind of got weird and said I wasn’t ready. He said that was fine.” 

The doctor gives him a soft look. “I’m happy you were able to communicate that to him.” 

Ian nods. “Um, thanks. I’m just still not sure if I’ll be able to deal with it. Feel like, nervous, or something.” 

“Do you understand the reasoning behind it?” 

Ian gestures to the giant desk, full of papers. “Probably the stuff in my file. Did you see the stuff in there?” 

The doctor nods. “I have.” 

Ian twists his fingers in his lap. “Did you see all of it?” He looks up slowly, then stares right in her eyes, more confident this time. “All the stuff that happened?” 

The doctor nods again. “I have. That’s why I understand the desire to go slowly, moving into a place of safety. Not everyone would do that, Ian. I mean it. It’s very important to discuss with a potential partner. It’s a good idea to communicate about some of the more traumatizing events, it’s repercussions, the–”

“It’s _fine,_ he says. “I’m dealing with it fine, I promise. Time is helping. I read a couple books or whatever. I’ll be fine about it. I’m gonna feel fine whenever it happens, I know I will.” He sighs deeply, wipes his hands on his pants. “I just wanted to bring it up. Let you know that it’s something I’ve been thinking about. Forget it.” 

“Ian, “ the doctor says, voice low and pointed. Ian knows, all of a sudden, he’s starting to flail. He starts closing doors inside him, letting them softly but swiftly shut, moving closer into himself. 1 2 3 4. “I’m glad you are telling me. I’m not arguing that. In fact, I’m really glad you did. I’m just reminding you to be very careful about your stressors. This is something that could cause a relapse if we’re not careful, which is all the more reason to sit tight with your meds.” 

“He’s not going to make me relapse,” Ian says firmly. “He’s not.” 

“I’m not saying _he_ will make you relapse, Ian. I’m saying the stressors of working through some of your barriers could aggravate the bipolar and cause you to become hypomanic.” 

“Yeah, but he won’t though. He doesn’t know all the stuff, but he’s,” he says, searching for the right word. “He’s...careful. He’s really careful. I don’t get why, but it’s helping.” 

The doctor squints. “That may be something to discuss with him before you begin a relationship,” she says. She takes a sip of her coffee and starts to swivel her chair away from her desk. “Are you experiencing any sexual side effects from the medications at this point, Ian? I seem to remember that was able to subside.” 

Ian feels a door inside him swing open, loose hinges tightening, new paint waiting for him, his hand unsteady on the brush. “Um, no,” he says.“No, I don’t think so.” He clears his throat as he stands. 

“Glad to hear that,” the doctor says, walking him to reception. “I think I should have you back in two months instead of three. After the holidays. That okay with you?” 

Ian’s head tilts, just slightly. “Okay,” he says. “Sure, okay.” 

The receptionist begins to look at the two month schedule, offers a date or two before the doctor turns toward him, just outside her office. “Ian,” she says. “Good luck.” 

*

Ian watches Mickey sign the papers, eyes up to the clock, goodbye to Laura. Soon Mickey’s there, small smile. Ian’s hand comes down to pop the trunk on the Townie, and Mickey puts a Story box into another box in the trunk. Everything into the next thing, and the next, until Mickey’s back in his seat, shifting in reverse. 

“I’m gonna burn my shit tonight. You gonna come?” 

It’s the first Ian’s heard of a solid plan.

“Sure,” he says. “Where?” 

“Remember that church I took you to? The first time I was teachin’ you the car?”

“I remember,” Ian says. “Why there? Why at that church?” 

“I’ll tell you when we get there. You wanna help me burn by shit or not?” 

“Yes,” Ian says. “Yes. I wanna help you burn your shit.” 

“Good.” 

*

The headlights hit the sign again, the sign Ian tried to read before he realized it was in Russian. Saint Elizabeth Russian Orthodox, it says. Mickey parks the car and shuts it off.

“Okay,” he begins, taking his seatbelt off. “Okay,” he says, turning in his seat to face Ian, but he’s looking in his lap. “Okay, so this place pisses me off because it’s the place my dad made me get married to this girl.” 

Ian’s eyes fly wide. “You’re, you’re _married?”_

Mickey sighs, rubs the back of his head. “Kind of,” he says. It’s complicated.” 

Ian feels...he doesn’t know how he feels. Antsy. A little bit like his breathing is coming too quickly. “Mickey, I need to,” he begins. He opens the car door, leans against it. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4. 

Ian hears Mickey’s door open and shut. He smells the deep smell of a new cigarette. Lighting a cigarette is a different taste, different smell, when it’s from a match. Sharper. Little taste of metal in the mouth.

“Ian,” Mickey says. “Ian, listen.” 

Ian doesn’t turn. His stomach drops. He realizes he’s sweating. A cold, scared sweat. 1 2 3 4. 

“It’s not like that,” Mickey says. “Hang on.” 

Ian’s eyes tip upward. He tries to tell himself he’s looking at the cold brick building, but the tiny wetness in his eyes says otherwise. “It’s fine,” he says. “No need to explain.” 

It’s quiet. “No,” Mickey says. “No, there _is_ a need to explain. Just shut up a minute.” 

The hair on his neck, his arms, his chest. Ian can feel him. Feel Mickey getting closer. Magnets. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, and he puts his back to the church. “I need to to tell you all this shit. Remember the night, that night where I kissed you?” Mickey’s breath falters. “When I kissed you? That was the night I said I needed to tell you my shit. Remember that?”

Ian looks at Mickey’s mouth. He feels himself nudging closer, just a little. “I remember,” he says. 

When Mickey looks up, Ian can clearly see the expression on his face, even with the street light too far, even though it’s getting dark. _Run._

“When I was 19, I was with this guy,” Mickey begins. “Not like a boyfriend. Not really. We weren’t out, we hardly talked to each other outside of that.” He takes a drag of his cigarette to Ian, who takes it. “Outside of sex, I mean.” 

Ian nods. “Sure,” he says. “Been there with the neighborhood.” 

Mickey nods. “So this guy. We never fucked in a house. We were always trying to find a busted up place somewhere we’d be able to hide. Abandoned buildings, that kind of thing.” 

Mickey shifts, reaches for the cigarette, takes a drag, nervously flicks the ash off over and over. “So one time,” he says. “My dad’s going on a run for a couple days. We sold drugs, guns, any kind of shit like that. He’d go out sometimes like that, move stuff around, right? So I tell this guy, the guy I’m fucking, that he should come over. It’s really good that first night. Like, really good. Spent the night fucking, but also things like watching movies and fucking making out. Never done that before,” Mickey says, a tiny, sad smile on his face. 

Ian gives a little affirmative hum. Reaches for the cigarette. 

“So then the next morning, the guy’s gotta go to work, and I tell him to wait, right? Want to fuck one last time. Just starting to when my dad comes in.” 

Ian's stomach drops.Mickey’s face is completely stoic, now. Just the last sentence did it. “Oh my god, Mickey.” 

He nods. “Beat the shit out of us. Not him as much. I kept getting in his way. Was used to him beating the shit out of me. Pistol whipped me and everything. I wake up and there’s a russian prostitute standing there, and the guy is sitting in this chair, and my dad’s just pointing his gun at everyone. Makes the girl fuck me. Makes the guy watch. Got me so fucked up, Ian. Can’t –” his voice cracks, just slightly, before it comes back. “Girl gets knocked up. Who knows if it’s mine. Doesn’t matter. End up having to marry her here. Shit beyond that gets more complicated, more fucked, but she’s better now. I’m better. Kid is cute - see him sometimes. Obviously don’t live with me. Other side of town. Not any of ours’ fault. Took me a while to know that.” He takes one more drag before flicking it somewhere to burn out in the parking lot. 

“Mickey,” Ian says gently. “What about your dad?” 

“Dead. Thank Christ. Only wish I coulda been the one to fucking kill him myself.” 

“And the guy?” 

Mickey backs up, just a little. Sniffs, looks at his feet. “He,” he begins. “I don’t know,” he says. “Just left.” 

Ian’s mouth opens a little, feels his lips give a tiny shake. “Mickey,” he begins. “I’m really, really sorry.” 

Mickey kicks at the ground once. Spits. “So that’s the worst of my shit. What you got?” 

“I got too much.” 

“Try me,” he says. 

Ian’s head swims. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, some fucked up shit happened to me too. Not like that, but. But, you know. Stuff?” 

Mickey nods, slowly. “Figured.” 

“I’ve told you ‘bout the army already,” he says. “But something happened there. Wasn’t a huge deal, but wasn’t good. Don’t want to talk about that. Just isn’t important. Other stuff’s worse. Doctors’ think that helped kick start the bipolar. Helped pull it out of hiding.” 

Mickey’s eyes widen. “Whaddya mean, other stuff?” 

“You get what mania’s about? D’you know that? Like, when it’s really bad?” 

Mickey shifts his feet again. “I been lookin’ up on it since I met you. Didn’t hear what happened with you, though.” 

Ian looks to the sky, tears coming, goddammit, in the corners of his eyes. He starts to laugh a little, sarcastically, through the tears. “Oh, you know. Stole a bunch of suitcases from the airport. There’s a fucking porno out there with me in it. Fucked around in bathrooms with half of Chicago. Got fucking syphilis. I was a dancer at a gay club and don’t remember half the shit I did. Been back there, since, trying to track former triggers of my symptoms. What I saw wasn’t good.” 

“Jesus,” Mickey breathes. “All when you got manic? I didn’t think it was like that. Thought it was just, like, energy.” 

Ian wipes at his face. “It is,” he says. “It doesn’t usually get that bad. It’s what you said. It’s just, like, energy. That’s how it usually starts. Sometimes I can’t really even tell. Just feels like I’m doing great. Having fun. It starts to creep up, mostly a little bit at a time, until it comes faster. The energy mostly feels really good, but it has this little thing of weird at the same time. Start not really eating or not sleeping much. Can’t shut my fucking mouth to save my life. Feel this kind of tingling everywhere, like a good tingle and a weird one, almost kind of a bad one, at the same time. Like, itchy. Itchy and I can’t quite scratch it. Feel invincible. But it doesn’t stay like that all the time.” 

“How long it last?” 

“Depends,” Ian says. “Depends on what mania’s trying to do to you. If it doesn’t start getting really bad, maybe like a week or something? Unless it’s trying to drag you down more.” He’s always thought of it like that, even though he thinks he shouldn’t. “Like it starts getting really bad, sometimes slow, and sometimes fast, and you can’t see how to get down anymore from it anymore. Don’t want to.” 

Ian thinks of that, the ladder he couldn’t see, not at all. A ladder that never existed, in his mind. He swallows. “Wound up in the hospital. Brought me down. Hated how I felt. Remember how I said my mom’s bipolar?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Ian repeats. “After they brought me down, started giving me regular meds, they told me that’s what I had. Got pissed. Gave me meds. Got home. Stopped taking em. Wish I would have. Wouldn’t have gotten worse. Wouldn’t have hurt him more than I already had.” 

“Him who?” Mickey asks. “You had someone?” 

“Yes,” Ian says. He takes a deep breath. “I had–I had someone, like the guy you had. Started out like that, like what you said. Got to be more than that. We’d been in some stage of something for years. Got serious. Comes out. Live with him. Then I decide I don’t want meds after all. Basically tell him to go the fuck away so I can get manic again." 

“Why though? Why would you want to get like that?" 

Ian takes a deep breath. "Because. Because that's the big problem,” he says. “You get to the point where you want to just feel like that. That feels like you. Nothing else does. Mania feels like how you’re supposed to be, and people in your life just don’t understand. That’s what people can’t really get. You don’t want to give it up. It feels really good at the time. Feel strong. Feel confident." 

Mickey shuffles, just a little. “But why did it get worse? Why’d it happen?” 

“It just can,” Ian tries to choose words carefully. Doesn’t want to run. Doesn’t want to run. “It can, and it can be hard to catch. I still don’t really get why. It just, like, is this train you see coming, but you don’t know how fast it’s moving until it hits you. There’s all sorts of things that can happen. Starting hoarding things, start hearing things, seeing things. Just out of the corner of your eye, maybe. Believing weird things. Sometimes there’s sex stuff.” 

“What,” Mickey says, just as carefully, “What was the sex stuff?” 

“Started off slow,” Ian says. “Jacking off all the time. Hit a club a couple times.” He pauses. He wishes he could close his mouth. Wishes that could be all he had to say.

“Soon I’m blowing guys in the alley behind the dollar store. Fucked a guy on the el. But–” he says. God, no. “One night I’m at some party and fuck a guy in front of everyone. Then fuck some other guy right after. Then someone told me to leave. I have no idea why I was even doing it. My brain, the brain I have now, still doesn’t really get why I would ever do it.” He waits. “I didn’t really know the host. It wasn’t a sex party. Maybe some after-bar? I have no idea. But I do remember the whole thing clearly. Remember the guys, except the faces. That’s around the time blobs started. I can kind of remember them. Like hair color and build or whatever. But I’d never recognize them if they walked by.”

Mickey inhale is sharp. “Fuck, Ian.” 

Ian pauses. “Need a cigarette,” he says. Mickey starts to pass one over with the matchbook, but Ian shakes his head. “Can you light it?” 

Mickey does. Suddenly, Ian is reminded of going to church, just sometimes. Gallaghers. Catholic, of course. There was always some scam, but Ian liked the statues. Jesus with the thorns, The Virgin Mary stepping on a snake. Ian had his First Communion. _Everyone gives a kid money for their First Communion, Monica had said. It was true._ They got what they needed out of him. Cards imprinted with doves, with lilies, the host and cup, rosary, maybe. Cards tossed aside as money fell out. $150, something like that. He doesn’t remember. 

One day, maybe thirteen, he slipped into a confessional. He just wanted to feel the safety of being closed in, dark. Smell the incense, the smell of candles burning for hours. He heard a noise, afraid that some priest would open the little door next to his head. But no one did. 

This reminds him of that. The fear of someone opening the door, asking him about his sins, if he is willing to atone. Light candles every day for 7 days. Say five decades of the rosary, concentrating on the sorrowful mysteries. 

Ian passes the cigarette back. “I need to tell you something else,” he says. 

“Go ahead,” Mickey says, so quietly he can hardly hear it. 

Ian takes a breath. “A couple times. A couple times I woke up in strange places, no memory, with my ass hurting so bad I couldn’t walk right. Another time I remember being held down by one guy while another guy fucked me. Then they switched places. I remember that so well, how I kind of disconnected after a while, just a body. But I feel like I can’t even remember why. I can’t even remember right. There’s some stuff like that.” 

“Ian–”

“I don’t know how it got so bad. I just don’t. I was so sick. I kept taking all sorts of drugs, I don’t even know what. I knew some of it was happening. LIke, I know it was happening and maybe I was even okay with some of it at the time.” Ian starts crying again. Fuck. Fuck. “But there are all these holes, Mick. Holes in my memory. Can’t even fucking remember.” 

He covers his face. Fuck. “I don’t think about it half the time - it’s just this blur of faces that aren’t even finished. Haven’t had sex since I started getting better. Scared I’ll feel like that, like I’ll turn the person into a blob.” He drops his hands and sighs. He looks at Mickey. Doesn’t waver. “You’re the first person I’ve touched at all. Touched, you know, like that. Thought about like that.” He swallows, nervous. “Only person I _think_ about like that.” 

There’s a short, contained “hmm” from Mickey. 

Ian breathes out. “And,” he says, breathing slowly, 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4. “And the weird part is I didn’t even think about any of the bad stuff when I touched you, you touched me, all of it. Like, any of what we were doing. I just felt like that never happened. But then the stupid scar thing happened, and when you touched them, I just felt kind of zapped back into my body, you know?” He hopes, hopes so hard, Mickey understands. “But it wasn’t like the body before.” 

“What body?” Mickey says. 

Ian squints. “What?” 

“You said,” Mickey says. “You just said when you were with me you were zapped back into _your_ body. But then you said _the_ body right after that.” 

Ian sighs. “Wow,” he says, the cold sweat rising again, sudden shake in his limbs. _Run. Run._ “Yep. Okay,” _Run._ “I think I need to walk around a minute.”

“Ian –” 

“Just said I fucking need a minute.” Ian says, harder than he meant to, arms releasing the hold across his chest. Reaching up, sliding his hair back. “Just give me a second.” He walks around the side of the church again. There are bushes, but they aren’t tall enough to hide him as his head touches the cold brick. He sees his breath shake out in the cold. It’ll be winter soon. He pulls his jacket tighter. Shoulders to ears. His body, the body he was before. The bodies at work. A Story. The stories he tells himself, trying to make sense of what the fuck happened. Who he was. Who he thought he’d be. Who he is, now. 

Ian can hear Mickey’s footsteps. He can hear them like he’s learned to. Coming closer, but not too close. Close enough to say Ian’s name. Says things like _Look, man. I’m sorry. Hard shit. I know._ But it’s like an echo in Ian’s head. Ian just sees some guys in a blob, looking at him, touching him. 

__Ian’s back pushes of the brick wall. He looks down at his feet, then up at Mickey, barely visible. A shape coming closer._ _

__“When did you know,” Ian asks. Statement, not question. “Know what it really was.”_ _

__Mickey lights a cigarette. “Mandy,” he says. “Mandy, kind of. She figured it out, a little. Way I got jumpy. Way I stayed away from dad. Quit takin showers, wore old clothes, hid out places, shot at stuff. Mandy figured it out. She–" Mickey's breath sounds wet. "Wasn't a stranger to it. She didn’t go too far talkin about that, though, which is fine cause I didn't wanna hear that shit. Didn't want to tell her my shit either. Didn't know I was gay or nothin."_ _

__"Did she ever find out?" Ian asks. "What happened?"_ _

__Mickey's short grunt is unreadable, but Ian lets it go. "Just said stuff like saying how much it would probably fuck me up for a while. Wouldn't want to do stuff." Mickey inhales deeply. “Didn’t believe her at first, but she was right. She was– he pauses, past tense still new–" she was always so right about everything. That’s what Mandy was like. She knew what I needed to hear, know how to say stuff to me. No one else did. No one did ever. If she didn’t say anything to me about it, I’d never–” but he doesn’t finish._ _

__Ian’s not sure if he’s going to continue, but he does.“Fucked me up. For a while I just kept beating people up who looked at me wrong. Then kind of started fucking around, random dudes in alleys. Just to try and erase it, you know what I mean?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Ian says, quietly._ _

__“Didn’t try anything serious with anybody. No kissing, no names, nothing,” Mickey says, handing Ian the cigarette. “But I never done much serious anyway.” He takes the cigarette back. “Then met Will though. Was weird.”_ _

__“How was it weird?” Ian asks, softly._ _

__Mickey sighs. “Like, weird because I wanted to be around him. Like, not just fucking, but just be around him. Made me laugh. He’s funny. Really funny.”_ _

__Ian squints in the growing dark, sees the end of Mickey’s cigarette brighten as he inhales. Ian tries to think of Mickey with Will. Falling in love with him, maybe. Maybe couldn’t quite say it, but knows he did. Can hear it in his voice._ _

__“So we go out one night. Just nothing big, not a big deal. Tries to kiss me when we get outside, and I jerk back, right? So Will gets it, and doesn’t try and kiss me again. Even when we started fucking.”_ _

__Ian remembers, then, how much he didn’t kiss when he did stuff Before. Wasn’t the point. Wasn’t time. Part of him feels relieved, even amid all the shit, that he didn’t._ _

__“But then,” Mickey says. “One night we just start fucking, and then I’m kissing him like I’m dying or some shit. Felt, you know, good. That’s when things got serious. The only time I been that serious.”_ _

__“Wow,” Ian says._ _

__“Wow, I know,” Mickey continues. “But of course that all turns to shit. Soon I realize how much Mandy was fucking right. Always fucking right. It _did_ fuck me up. Embarrassing, man. One night Will and I start up, and all of a sudden I’m just layin’ there. Just layin’ there with my eyes shut tight. He doesn’t notice at first, but then realize I’m not moving or nothin’. Sits up, asks me what’s wrong. Not until then I realize I been fuckin’ cryin.” _ _

__“Mickey–”_ _

__“So he just pulls this sheet off and kind of wraps it around. I just kind of cry a while. I don’t fuckin cry. Probably can count on one hand the times I cried before then. All of em when I was a little kid, probably.” He flicks the cigarette somewhere again. “So I start telling him all this shit. Shit about growing up, shit about my dad, then I tell him about that guy and what happened. He just seems totally confused. He didn’t grow up like that. Northside. Don’t know what it’s like to grow up like us.”_ _

__Ian nods. Isn’t sure Mickey sees him, but he nods. “I know,” he says. “They never do.”_ _

__Mickey exhales deeply. “Tells me I got raped,” he said. “Tells me that’s what it was. Got raped.”_ _

__Ian’s breath stills. He remembers the hospital, the doctors there, the therapist. _What you are describing is rape, Ian._ and _This was an an act of sexual assault, Ian._ and _It sounds like you were attempting to widen the boundaries of your consent so you could distance yourself from what you experienced, Ian.__ _

__Mickey’s voice is stern, but he hears the slight crack, just beneath it. “You know about that shit? People having to tell you that shit because you don’t get it? That you were, you know."_ _

__Ian swallows. It's still hard to say, so he doesn't. ”Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know about that shit.”_ _

__Mickey spits. “Thought you might. Thought that might be part of all this. Felt familiar.”_ _

__Should he say it? He should. “How come,” Ian says. “How come you’re so nice about it to me? Act like you did? Most guys would have walked. Most guys–”_ _

__“Jesus Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey groans. “M’ not most fuckin’ guys. Not with this."_ _

___Oh my god,_ Ian thinks. _You’re a guy that stays._ His knees shake._ _

__“I know what it’s like to not get fuckin’ time,” Mickey says. “Not get enough enough fuckin time. When someone pushes you.”_ _

__“Pushes you?” Ian has to lean against the wall again, mind a blur of no no no. “Did Will push you? Did he try and–”_ _

__“Oh, no fuckin way,” Mickey says, but there’s a panic in his voice. “I’da killed him.” He sighs deeply again. “Everything was going ok. Even brought me to a fuckin counselor. He got money. Pay for that crap.”_ _

__“Did it help,” Ian says. Statement. Not question._ _

__Mickey sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, it actually really did. Couldn’t believe I was even going there. Fucking embarrassing. But I didn’t feel as fucked up. But after a while all that shit came back. Not cryin, but just not in it anymore. Probably felt boring. Just couldn’t. I did it anyway. Wasn’t like I didn’t want to or anything, but I was going through motions, not really letting it in too deep. It’s not like he was doing anything to me. Just kind of going through it. Not paying attention anymore.”_ _

__“Didja keep feeling like that? Like, did it get better?” Ian can’t keep the hopefulness out of his voice. “Feel more like your body’s okay? Like your brain is letting your body be okay?"_ _

__“Don’t know,” Mickey says. “Never got to find out. Broke up with me.”_ _

__Ian can't stop the sharp intake of breath. "What? That’s how you broke up?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Mickey says. “He wanted someone else. Was fucking around behind my back. Wanted someone, you know, who could like doin’ it without having to deal with this shit, I guess.”_ _

__“Mickey–”_ _

__“Look,” Mickey says, slight annoyance. “Look, I been thinking about what happened. All this time. Had a couple years before him, had him for a few months of that. Its not like I’m worried all the shit will come back if I do it. It’s not like that. Like, I don’t feel scared about doin’ it. It’s just–" There's a pause, where Ian hears him breathe "I just haven’t,” he says. “Not since Will. Haven’t anything. Not gonna let some stranger do that to me. Like, get in there like Will fuckin did.”_ _

__“Want someone you can trust,” Ian says evenly._ _

__“Yeah,” Mickey says, voice small. “Yeah. I guess.”_ _

__“So when we were,” Ian says. “When we were kind of doing that stuff in your apartment, did it feel bad? Did you–”_ _

__“No,” Mickey says, no hesitation. “Felt good. Felt right. You?”_ _

__“Same,” Ian says. “Felt the same.”_ _

__“So,” Mickey says._ _

__“So,” Ian says._ _

__“C’mon,” Mickey says. Ian feels him grab at the front of his jacket, pull him away from the wall. “C’mon, we gotta burn this shit. Gonna have to take your medicine and shit if we wait too much longer.”_ _

__Mickey picks a place over by a window. It’s on the side, still paved. Ian wonders what’s so special. He looks down. It’s just an old church kitchen._ _

__“What’s this for,” Ian says, quietly._ _

__Mickey makes sure all of his shit is in a pile. “Last time I saw the guy,” he says. “The guy my dad beat me up for.” He stares down, eyes unmoving. “Here. Wedding. Tried to talk me out of it. I couldn’t get out of it. Surprised my dad hadn’t killed us both already.” Mickey plays with the book of matches in his hands. He strikes the match with one soft _snick._ It burns down just a bit until Mickey uses it to light a cigarette. “Kissed him and he still fuckin’ left.” _ _

__Mickey tosses the match into the pile. It doesn’t catch quickly or anything. It’s what it is. Just a little match in a pile of clothes. Mickey hands Ian a book of matches, and Ian’s hands shake, just a little, remembering the last time he held matches. “Light ‘em” Mickey says, so Ian does. Match after match after match, Mickey pulling out matchbooks, over and over from his pockets like a magician pulling out a long line of cards._ _

__Match after match after match, and eventually there isn’t much left. There’s a smell of sulfur in the air, so thick Ian feels it in his clothes, his mouth._ _

__It takes a long time, but it’s all pretty much gone. Mickey spits on it. “C’mon,” he says. “I’ll drive you home.”_ _

__*_ _

__The lights are on, inside. He can see Fiona cleaning stuff up, sees Carl’s back come around the corner._ _

__Ian turns his head, can see Mickey looking in, too._ _

__“You,” Ian says. “You wanna come in?”_ _

__“Kinda,” he says. “But I,” he touches the wheel, drags his hands around it. “I should probably get home.”_ _

__“Another time, then,” Ian says. He didn’t expect to feel hurt. But Mickey’s right. They are both exhausted from their conversation. “You gonna be okay getting home?”_ _

__Mickey nods. “Have to work early. You?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Ian says. “Got Mr. Moroz in the morning.”_ _

__“That’s right,” Mickey says. “F ’I get there before you, I can start setup if you want.”_ _

__“Thanks,” Ian says. “That would be great.”_ _

__There’s a pause, “Thanks,” Mickey says. “Thanks for listening to me tell ya that. Feel better now that you know about it."_ _

__The streetlights are bright enough that when Mickey turns, his eyes fall so soft on Ian he has to take an extra breath. “Thanks for telling me,” Ian says. “I mean it.” He picks at the knee of his dress pants. “And thanks,” he says, so quietly he's not sure Mickey heard. "Thanks for being like this to me."_ _

__"Like what." Breath._ _

__"Like someone to trust with this. All of this. What happened?” He clears his throat. "I've never told anybody about it. Not, like, all of it anyway. Never thought I could. Not all of it. Thought I couldn't." He motions with his chin down to his arms, long scars hidden. "Last time I tried to deal with it I ended up like this.”_ _

__Mickey's shuts the engine off, and his hand comes off the wheel. "It's hard to go through it," he says. "I think you're– think you're doing great." Ian sees Mickey’s fingers twitch, just slightly._ _

__Ian unbuckles his seatbelt, but his eyes go to Mickey’s hands. The strong, sure hands that held onto him that day. “Feel like my family can't see it. I think they try, but they still kind of remind me about how bad I fucked up. Like, things got so broken and ugly it won't be good again. Like, can’t. Not really." He opens and closes his mouth, a flare of something rising inside him, Mickey’s fingers dropping a match. Ian’s eyes come up to find Mickey’s face. "But I don’t feel like that with you."_ _

__Mickey’s voice, so quiet."Yeah?"_ _

__"Yeah,” Ian says. “You make me feel, like, new." He hopes Mickey can’t see his shyness, hear it. He exhales sharply. "That's sounds dumb, I know."_ _

__“It's not dumb," Mickey breathes. "It's not."_ _

__They sit, quietly, looking at each other. Ian turns, looks up at his house, all lit up, turns back to Mickey._ _

__Mickey had been looking at the back of his head. Ian knows. Mickey’s eyes are wide. Ian can see it written there. Trust me. Ian writes it on his own face. _Trust me._ He feels Mickey take a deep breath. Ian’s eyes flit around his face. Focus on his mouth, back to his eyes. “Mickey,” he breathes, getting closer, leaning closer. “Mickey, I want–” _ _

__Mickey’s head leans in, lips meeting his. Slow, soft, a question. Ian hears a tiny, light sound in his throat as his hand comes up to touch Mickey's face, hand smooth, just a little._ _

__Their hands, their palms, not grabbing, not rough. Gentle palms moving smooth over shoulders, sliding up the backs of heads. Soft. Safe._ _

__Ian pulls his head back, hand finding Mickey’s face. “This weird?”_ _

__“Nuh-uh. S’good.” He leans forward, “You okay?”_ _

__Ian nods, sighs _yes_ into Mickey’s mouth, tongue tasting him. Mickey’s tongue responds, Ian hopes that Mickey can feel the difference, that Mickey feels how much he’s okay._ _

__Because it _is_ okay. It’s more than okay. Ian feels himself present in every cell of his body, each cell saying _yes_ saying _please_ and _thank you._ Mickey’s hands glide against Ian’s hair, cupping his head, and Ian exposes his neck, ready to be kissed slowly, softly._ _

__Ian’s hands begin to tug at Mickey’s jacket. Not opening it, not trying to yank it off, just a little pull on the ends, just toward him. Firm, but not fast. Mickey leans over and over and over. Their breath is fast, faster. Ian’s large hand slides low against Mickey’s back, pulls him as far as he can go. Pressed against the leather armrest, one small, smooth island._ _

__“Mickey,” Ian whispers. “You wanna come over here?”_ _

__Mickey’s breath is hard. “Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t move, not yet. “Yeah, get the seat back.”_ _

__Ian lets a tiny groan escape. He reaches for the handle below the seat, remembers it only works with a button. “Ignition. Need the buttons to work.” There’s a fumble, shaking hands, car battery gasping with them, then quiet again. Ian’s seat is back and Mickey’s legs are finding their way over. It’s a tight fit at first, but when Ian reaches for Mickey, it’s worth it. Every inch is alive, sparking._ _

__Mickey breathes. “Oh God, Ian.”_ _

__Ian pulls Mickey down, flat against his chest. “Mickey,” he whispers. “Feel so…”_ _

__“Good?” Mickey says, It’s teasing question, but there’s uncertainty, too. Ian presses his hands against his back._ _

__“You do,” Ian says, hands beginning to move lower. “You feel so good.”_ _

__Mickey moans, noses Ian’s head to the side, begins to kiss and lightly suck the space beneath his ear. Ian groans at the contact, and begins to buck his hips slightly._ _

___Oh God._ _ _

__Their hips press together, almost accidentally. They both shake. Both make tiny, shaking sounds. Hands falling harder, more certain._ _

__Ian’s eyes roll back. “Mickey,” he whispers._ _

__MIckey’s head rises from Ian’s neck. “Hold onto me,” he says. “Please,” he says._ _

__Ian moans again, slides his hands down Mickey’s sides, sliding over his ass, just resting there as he kisses him again. Mickey grinds down, and Ian’s breath comes so fast. “You can hold me tighter, if you want.”_ _

__Ian wants. He is okay. He holds onto Mickey’s ass tighter, but grinds him down in slow circles. The friction is something wider than want, something closer to floating. Floating away from what was, floating toward what it is._ _

__Mickey leans forward, brings his forehead to Ian’s. They shake and shake. Breath fast. Ian grinds into him harder, moving him up and down in long lines, spreading his ass apart a little bit through the fabric. “Mickey, you’re so good,” because he is. “So good to me,” because he is._ _

__That’s it. Mickey’s head goes back and he gasps, body beginning to tense. Ian grabs on tighter, and they both unravel quickly. Ian’s mind falls somewhere against Mickey’s lips, somewhere perfectly shaped. Whole._ _

__They still. Mickey’s head drops further. “That,” he says. “That.” But he doesn’t finish._ _

__Ian chuckles. “Haven’t done that before.”_ _

__“Haven’t done what?”_ _

__Ian’s hand comes up to smooth against Mickey’s cheek, his hair. “Humped in a car until I came in my pants.”_ _

__Mickey chuckles into his chest. “Haven’t either.” He rises up on his forearms. “I think it’s supposed to happen at some point in life,” he says. “Something normal. We get to be normal now?”_ _

__It drags a laugh out of both of them, a soft scarf pulled from a magician’s pocket this time. Mickey’s head turns, looks out the window. “Oh fuck,” he says._ _

__“What,” Ian says, sitting up. Carl’s in the window, right next to Liam. He can’t stop the laugh that rises. “My brothers. Car windows are tinted so hard they didn’t see anything, I swear.”_ _

__Mickey kisses Ian quickly before backing off him. He gives a little wince as he brushes up against his pants. “Gonna be a long ride home in this mess,” he says. “Good thing you’re the one that cleans the cars.”_ _

__Ian smiles so wide. “Tomorrow?”_ _

__“Tomorrow.” Mickey leans over, one last kiss, and Ian’s hand comes up before he opens the door, watches Mickey drive away. There is a deep relief, a deep feeling that he'll be okay. Maybe he will be, after all. He sighs as Mickey turns the corner. Smiles like he can still see him._ _

__Ian folds his jacket in front of him as he opens the front door, not bothering to wipe the smile from his face. Carl and Liam snicker and Ian waves them off. He looks up, sees Fiona leaning against the kitchen’s doorframe_ _

__“Invite him to Thanksgiving,” she says. “Whoever this guy is, it’s time to meet him.”_ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian realizes how brave he is.

The thing about the lilies is that even when Ian’s not working, he thinks he can still smell them. Sometimes in his clothes. Sometimes his skin. It’s such a deep, heavy smell. The smell everyone thinks of when they think about a funeral home. There are roses, and orchids, and carnations, too. 

But the lilies, the lilies are everywhere. All the time. Ava told him they signify the soul’s return to innocence, purity, peace. Whatever happened in life, whatever there was, any bad thing, erased with one flower, with ten flowers, twenty. Erased. 

A do-over. 

Ian smells the tiniest whiff when he walks into the library. It’s like his nose releases the lilies to breathe in the smell of dusty books, paper, warmth. He wants to go over to the nearest shelf, glide his fingers over the spines, slow, breathing it all in. He saves it until he gets toward the back of the fiction section, hidden in a little space by the wall. The pads of his fingers slide along the spines, slowly, before he turns his hand over, gliding back softly with his fingernails. 

“The fuck are you doin?’” 

“Shh.” Ian whispers, brow creased. “Gotta be quiet.” He gestures to the bookshelf. “I just like how that feels. Always have. You want to fight about it or find your book?” A smirk. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, reaches in his back pocket for the folded piece of paper. He hands it to Ian. “If you read any of these, pick one and tell me what it’s about. See if I want to read it.” 

Ian nods as they sit down. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He counts with his finger down the page. 

“You count with your finger?” Mickey’s tongue is in his cheek, the little shit. 

“Fuck off,” Ian whispers. “You want help or not?” He shakes his head. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. As I Lay Dying is good. It’s about–” 

“Oh really? You forget what our job’s about?” 

“It’s not really like that, but.” Mickey shoots him a look. “Okay. The Bell Jar. About a girl who’s a writer but mentally ill.” 

“Pass.” 

“The Scarlet Letter? It’s about this woman in the 1600s who has an affair, and–” 

“Next.” 

“One Hundred Years of Solitude?” Ian says, incredulous. “That’s an option?” He shakes his head. “That’s crazy. You’d never get through it. Sorry.” Ian squints. “The Sun Also Rises.” You might like that one. It has some gross bullfighting.” 

“That one, then. Find it and check it out.” 

Ian pushes his leg playfully. “What, you don’t have your own library card?” 

Mickey flips him off when he stands, offers Ian his hand so he can stand up. Mickey starts to say something, but Ian grabs his shirt, pushes him quietly against the wall. He kisses the smile on Mickey’s mouth, hands dropping to his hips, squeezing. The slightest hum as Mickey’s hips press back against the wall, lightly pushing him off, grinning. 

“Be outside. Otherwise get me some other one on the list. You know what I like.” 

*

“You coming back for Thanksgiving?” 

“Yeah, I think so.“ Lip’s voice is muffled, then clear again. “Amanda’s parents were gonna have us come down, but now they’re going to France or something.” 

The chime sounds just before the El doors close, just as Ian steps on and slides into a seat, grinning. “What, and you didn’t weasel your way into that?” 

“Passport,” Lip says. “Amanda filled out all the shit but I never went in.” Ian hears the click of the lighter. “Not happy.” 

Ian kicks his backpack under the seat. “You’re coming then?” 

Lip pauses. “Ian.” 

“What.” 

“Something you’re not telling me. Might as well tell me. Gonna figure it out. Might as well just say it.” 

Ian sighs deeply. “It’s–it’s,” he feels his smile rising, but tries to keep it out of his voice. Lip knows him too well. “I’m inviting someone to Thanksgiving. Like to introduce you to him.” 

He can hear Lip exhaling smoke, little laugh. 

“What.” 

“What do you mean what, dude?” Lip’s laughing. “You’re fucking that funeral school guy!” 

“I’m,” Ian begins. He’s not going to blush on the El. He’s not. “Yeah. Fine. It’s not really like that, but yeah.” 

“Not really like what?” 

Ian looks out the window, checks where he is so he knows how close his stop its. “It’s just, like, still taking time. Talked it over a lot last week, and things happened that night, and I think we’re getting closer. We’ll see.”

“You’ll figure it out, man,” Lip exhales again. “So you still living at home? Or are you staying with the funeral guy? Fiona said she thought your secret boyfriend lived by your work.” 

Ian groans. He decides to sidestep the boyfriend comment. Sidestep Fiona.. “He’s not _funeral guy_ , Lip. His name is Mickey. Don’t call him funeral guy, especially to his face. He’s really serious about it. Might punch you in the face.” 

“Done,” Lip says. “Think I’m coming home on Tuesday night, Wednesday afternoon at the latest. You gonna be there?” 

“Probably.” Ian stands, holding onto the rail. “Sometimes I stay at his place. But I’ll come back if you’re there.” The doors open and Ian steps out. He can hear Lip chuckle on the other end of the phone. 

“Don’t, Lip. I swear to fucking god.” 

Lip is smiling around his cigarette. “I won’t,” he says. “Ian, it’s great. It really is.” 

Ian heads for the second train’s platform and takes a deep breath. “Thanks. Thanks, Lip. Glad you’re not going to France.” 

“Honestly?” Lip says. “Me too.”

*

It’s the first of Mickey’s days off, Tuesday and Wednesday. Ian’s are Wednesday and Thursday. That means Tuesday is the only work day without Mickey in it. Even though Ian likes his job, he never quite realizes how much Mickey’s a part of it unless he’s gone. It’s not something he would be eager to admit, but he’s pretty sure everyone knows. Ava, for sure. 

He’s cleaning up after Mrs. Grady’s viewing. She was the only one today. He moves the chairs, he vacuums. He cleans the windows like he always does. It’s a ritual Ava’s mom always did after a viewing. Open the windows, shut them, clean the glass. Like so many things at the home, it’s something Ian has never really questioned. The nicknames, the quirk, the bizarre filing systems, little rituals like this one. Yet, there’s something very soothing about it, like most things here. Calm. 

Ian takes a deep breath when he’s finished. He looks down at Mrs. Grady. He had stood in the doorway during the viewing, hands clasped together, ready to release, to respectfully murmur “Right this way, M’am” or “Evening, Sir.” Wave after wave of mourners, signs of the cross, a couple old ladies with rosaries. One lady touched his face and wept, asking if he was Mrs. Grady’s grandson. Irish Catholics. Part of him wanted to let go, move into the crowd. Be an interloper, hugging everyone, be hugged by everyone. But he stood. Stood still. Right this way, M’am. Evening, Sir. 

The family and the visitors didn’t take many flowers with them. Ian had gathered the condolence cards in the brown envelope with the red thread, twisting it shut before offering it to Mrs. Grady’s son on the way out. Took his thank you, his nod, as he helped his wife to the car, leaving Ian with his mother, his mother’s flowers.

Ian reaches into his front pocket, pulls out the tiny piece of paper with his small, neat handwriting on it, numbers and descriptions of the arrangements the family wants Jay to take to the gravesite in the morning. Small service. Just family. Ian likes to see the pink orchids most of all. There are a lot of them for Mrs. Grady. A potted blue hydrangea, too. An arrangement with one lily and a billion carnations. 

Mrs. Grady’s hair is mostly grey, the slightest hint of red-brown in places. She’s dressed in a simple green dress with something Ava called a “peter pan” collar. Ian thought she was making it up, like she makes up everything, but Mickey swore it was a real thing, and then Ava made fun of him for knowing that, and then they began to bicker like they do, so Ian had walked away, chuckling. 

If Ian wanted to be buried, which he doesn’t, he’d hope for this sort of thing. Just some outfit he wore all the time that wasn’t fancy. Just him. Like Mrs. Grady with the peter pan collar and the pink cardigan on top of it. 

“Hey, Ian,” Ava says, quietly, not to startle. “Everyone taken care of?” She means two things. Number one, is everyone gone? Number two, time to take the jewelry off. 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, she’s good.” 

Ava walks over. “Aww,” she says. “Doesn’t she seem like she would have been awesome? I wanna go out looking like her. Think our hair will get like that when we’re old? Redheads can go all sorts of ways.” 

Ian shrugs. smiles. “Hey,” he says. “You see the flowers they picked to bring over?” 

Ava squints before she takes a few steps over. “Oh that’s cool!” she says. “Nice to see all the orchids. Looks like little kids picked out the carnations. Grandkids?”

Ian nods. “Yeah. Lots.” 

“So sweet,” Ava says. “Dang, love the yellow roses all over the place, too. I’m sure if daffodils were around, she’d have a billion of them. Lilacs for sure.” Ava sighs, turns to Mrs. Grady, hands on hips. “I’m so sorry it isn’t spring, Mrs. Grady.” 

It can be hard for Ian to see someone take the jewelry off. It feels intimate. The family wants to see it one last time, on the person they love, and there’s something really personal about that. They know it will all return to them in a matter of hours, but for a while, it doesn’t matter.

Mrs. Grady has pearl earrings, a spoon ring with a rose printed on it, and a necklace with a big circle thing Ava says is tortoiseshell. She also has a rosary with clear glass beads and tarnished silver charms. Her daughter said several times not to polish the silver, that her mom liked it tarnished. Made it more real. More loved in a world that wasn’t always loved the way it should be. 

“Ian can you come over? I took the rosary already. Can you just hold it? Don’t have my pocket thing on.” 

Ian moves over, hand out. He’s worried about the ring, but it slides right off. He worries about the necklace, but Ava has some sort of trick to release it. Maybe a pin? Ian doesn’t think about it much, because it’s off now. A tiny bit of something on the back of the necklace that holds it in place on her dress. She passes it to Ian. Ava carefully removes her earrings, drops them in his palm. 

Ava sighs. “There she is,” she says, hands on her hips. “Do you want to box em up or want me to?” 

“I can,” Ian says. “Leave the box on Jay’s desk. Okay if I go after? Think Jay needs me to do anything else? Numbered the plants, too, just in case.” 

“Perfect,” Ava says. “Just close her up and you can go.”

“Thanks,” he says. He sets the jewelry aside, is beginning to double check the plants when Ava speaks again.

“Hey Ian?” 

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah?” 

“Mickey called a couple times, I think. Heard your phone ring.” 

Ian looks up at that. “Did you–did you see something?” 

“Oh, no. No. It was just his classic Mickey ring. Like how he lets it ring to voicemail, then he hangs up. Then another with like two rings where he hangs up. Then maybe one more. Then nothing. Not a texter. Who isn’t a texter? Drives me crazy. He should know better than anyone that I can’t pick the phone up half the time.” Ava rolls her eyes. “Anyway, check it.” 

“Huh,” Ian says. “Wonder what he needed.” 

Pause. “Ian,” she says. “Ian.” 

“What.” 

Ava never really looks nervous. Even when she talked about Mickey and Mandy, it wasn’t nervous, it was sadness and hurt. But now she looks nervous. “You and Mickey. Are you guys…” but she doesn’t finish. “Like, I thought maybe before you were? Just wondering. Can’t always read him when your name comes up downstairs, which is weird because I feel like I know all of his faces. He’s,” she pauses. “Of course I love you too, but Mickey’s more a brother to me than the other two knuckleheads that live here. Hasn’t had it easy. Just feel protective.” 

Ian nods. “I understand how that feels.” 

“So, what is it, then?” 

“We’re,” he says. “We’re taking it slow, but it’s there.” He feels too embarrassed to look at her. He looks at Mrs. Grady instead. “It’s–there’s some stuff we have to work out. Like, I have to work out. Some scary stuff. He’s...helping me.” 

He can’t even believe he’s saying it. But now that he is, it’s done. “He’s, he’s really–”

Ava steps closer, touches his arm, voice kind. “You know what he is, Ian? He’s really loving. That’s what he is. He’s loyal, he’s loving, he’s all in. He’s scared of stuff, I know. But I know how he loves. I’ve seen it. And Ian? Sometimes I can almost see it. See how he loves, you know, you.”

Ian’s heart pounds. He isn’t sure what to say. He nods, slowly, eyes steady on Ava’s. 

Ava reaches out and squeezes onto Ian’s shoulders, releasing to leave. “Night, peach.” 

Mrs. Grady lies in her green dress. The things he overheard, there in the doorway, were different than most things he’s heard. He can’t really pick out anything out from all the other times he’s stood in the doorway so far, but he’ll probably remember Mrs. Grady. 

He will probably remember people saying over and over how her lemon pie was perfect because it tasted like lemons and not sugar, and how funny it was she got a little lemon tree to actually grow in a pot in her house. “I mean, you hear it can be done,” one said, “But only Evie could pull it off.” He heard people talking about places she traveled, traveled alone, back when women didn’t travel alone, one woman said, apparently still amazed. Got divorced when no one got divorced, because he didn’t love her and she knew he never would. _Brave,_ one man said, and people around him started dabbing their eyes. _Evie was brave._

Ian brushes Mrs. Grady’s collar with his finger, thinks about Peter Pan flying around the room, maybe slipping out when Ian opened the window to clean it. He pulls his hand back slowly. He carefully closes the lid, saying a little “Bye, Mrs. Grady.” like he always does with everyone he helps, but he says it a little louder this time. 

Brave. 

Ian boxes up the jewelry before heading back downstairs. He pulls his clothes out of his backpack, heads into the cloakroom upstairs to change. He looks at his phone, and Ava was right. Four missed calls from Mickey. He’s shocked to see he actually left a voicemail. He puts it on speaker as he pulls his shirt on. 

_I finished that book and I still don’t get half of what it was about. The only thing I know is that I hate Ernest Hemingway and I have pizza in the freezer and you better get your sweet ass over here tonight because you’re the one who got me into this shit._ There’s a pause. _Bye._

Ian can’t get his tennis shoes on fast enough. He races down the steps, calls out for Ava that he’s going. He doesn’t hear her reply. He’s out the door. 

_Walk slow,_ he tells himself. _Walk slow._

But he doesn’t want to walk slow. He doesn’t. Because he wants to be brave, he really does, and he thinks he might even be brave, after all. He doesn’t want to walk slow, because when he runs, it makes his heart beat faster, and when he stops running he can feel the rush of his blood pumping loud in his ears. He doesn’t want to be slow, be hesitant. He wants to travel to that country, grow things inside himself he thought he couldn’t grow again. He wants to feel the leaves in his hands. Smooth, rough, it doesn’t matter. Things that are beautiful, that breathe. 

Because he’s living and he’s alive and so is Mickey, and he wants to touch him so bad it makes him hold his breath, then release it until it shakes out in the cold. He wants to touch him and touch him and touch him, feel him breathing against him, mouth warm and open. Because he wants Mickey open, everywhere, wants to be invited into that openness, that perfect place inside him, and never leave. He wants. Wants to breathe and keep breathing. Brave, after all.  
He pauses at the stairs. Stops to catch his breath. Climbs the stairs, two at a time. He breathes in and out. He knocks on the door, twice, eyes closed. 

“Come in,” Mickey says.

*  
Mickey picks the plates up and walks them over to the kitchen sink. “All’s I know is I’m glad that shit’s over. Last time I read that kind of stuff just for kicks. Can’t believe people like it.” 

"It's not so bad," Ian stammers. His hands have been sweating since he stepped in the door. He ate a little pizza, drank half of a beer, but his nerves had his joints shaking the whole time. Adrenaline legs, like Mickey said that night.

"Whatever, man," Mickey says. Even with his back turned, Ian can tell he's smiling when he says it. He knows these things. Knows Mickey.

Ian swallows. Fuck. Mickey’s beautiful, standing there, cleaning plates and complaining about books he won’t read. He feels his breath in his chest, and knows his heart is inside there too. Alive. Beating. Deep breath. Now.

Ian stands up, even more nervous than he thought he would be. He walks over, so slowly, slow enough he could stop if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to. Not anymore. Mickey’s rinsing plates off, setting them up to dry, saying to the sink that he thinks Hemingway was a stupid prick who got all the ass he wanted despite being a total douche. 

Mickey’s hair is mussed up and his back is warm as Ian’s arms find either side of him, boxing him in, fingers finding the sink, wet where Mickey splashed against it. His mouth finds the side of Mickey’s neck, presses in, his confidence rising, pressing harder into his skin. A sound rises from Mickey’s mouth, surprised and deep, as Ian’s body leans closer. Mickey’s head falls back, and now Ian can go here, and here, and here against his ear, his throat, his collarbone. 

“Fuck,” Mickey says, almost a whisper, a candle in a church, thin match catching. 

Ian lets an arm drop, slide down Mickey’s side. He feels Mickey softly rock back as Ian’s fingers drift. Mickey’s hip slides perfectly into Ian’s hand, hands coming out to hold the sink as Ian brushes against him. Mickey’s head dips forward. “Fuck,” he says, louder this time. 

Ian’s other hand comes forward, fingers entwining with Mickey’s on the counter, kissing the back of Mickey’s neck where’s he's bent it, nuzzling into the nape, their breath falling deeper, wetter. 

“Ian,” Mickey gasps. “Ian. Wait wait wait. Wait.” 

Ian pauses, leans off, lets go of everything except Mickey’s hand. 

Mickey gently shakes off his hand, turns to face him. “We should– I wanna make sure you’re–” he says. 

Ian’s lips find Mickey’s, swallowing the rest of the words. Mickey moans, and Ian kisses harder as his mouth opens. He pulls Mickey flush against him, one hand pressing low on his back, one hand gliding up to his shoulder blade, holding him steady. 

Ian pulls his mouth away. Mickey’s eyes open, his lip catching between his teeth. 

“I’m ready, Mickey. I want to.” 

Mickey breathes hard. So hard. He pulls Ian closer, rougher. “Fuck,” he says. “You serious?” 

Ian grabs Mickey’s ass. Hard. He presses Mickey against him and hums. “Mickey, I’m really ready. Ready if you want to.” 

Mickey nods, shakily. “Yes. Now. I want to right fuckin now.” 

The sheets are blue and the lamp has a yellow shade and the closet door is open and _fuck_ because their clothes are coming off. It’s not hurried. It’s as casual as when their clothes come off before bed, the bed they have chastely shared several times before. But this is not like that. 

Their boxers stay on, like they are about to sleep, but Mickey is climbing on top of him, straddling this thighs. They are hard. So hard, so ready. But their hardness is quietly, firmly, hushed as Mickey’s hands fall next to Ian’s head, kissing over and over, a murmur Ian can feel everywhere. Mickey works Ian’s head back, a firm lick to his neck before he bites, softly, and Ian’s hands grasp Mickey’s shoulders, shuddering. “Again,” he breathes, and Mickey does. Fuck. 

Mickey gives his neck a soft kiss afterward, and then his body begins to slide down, kisses falling down Ian’s chest as he moves. As he moves toward a nipple, Ian holds his breath.

He remembers. Mickey remembers from the night with the measuring tape, the night Ian showed him what he was most afraid of. But this. This. This, Mickey remembers, remembers him, because he’s tipping his mouth, and he sucks Ian’s nipple, his areola, what feels like half his chest, into his mouth, slowly but firmly pulling there. Just the slightest drag of teeth as he deepens it, just like Ian told him he liked, and _fuck oh god so good harder_ Mickey remembered. He remembered, and now Ian’s back bows and his hands fly up to grab Mickey’s head. “Over.” He’s shaking. Is he shaking? He is. “Over.” And Mickey’s mouth finds the other, slower and softer this time. The change in sensation is like slipping underwater, Ian’s voice is making some noise he can hardly understand. Something like _yes_ but it’s so much more than that. 

Mickey releases, staring at Ian’s chest, stomach, body. Fingers sliding against him as Ian’s chest heaves, trying to catch his breath. His nipples are pointed and alive, aching in the best way. He pants as Mickey begins to kiss lower, lower, until Mickey slides one finger, just slightly, beneath the waistband of Ian’s boxers. 

Ian groans. He reaches out for Mickey’s hand. Not to stop, not interrupt. A brush against his knuckles to say _thank you._ Mickey’s teasing fingertip underneath the waistband slips just a little lower. Ian squirms, panting, swearing, amazed. 

“Wanna suck your dick,” Mickey says, voice low. “That okay? Can I do that?

“Fuck,” Ian breathes. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.” 

Mickey’s fingers travel lower, sliding the boxers off, pulling Ian out. Ian hears him say something, something soft and warm, but he’s not sure what it is. The feeling of being in Mickey’s hand is overwhelming, and when he pumps him a few times, Ian has to struggle to stay still. 

“Open your eyes,” Mickey says, softly. “Squinchin’ em. Need to know you’re ok.” 

Ian’s eyes open, finding Mickey, mouth open and breathing hard, between his legs. He can see his cock in Mickey’s hand, inches from his lips. “I feel like,” Ian breathes, “Feel like I won’t be able to last. I want to so–” 

Mickey nods. “We got time. S’okay. You can go ahead if you wanna.” 

Ian nods, but there must be something there, because Mickey backs off, just a little. He slowly but firmly drags his fingers along the inside of Ian’s legs, starting with his calves. Ian breathes so hard, saying Mickey’s name as his head dips to slowly kiss and lick the inside of Ian’s left thigh. 

Ian grips the sheets. 

“It’s okay,” Mickey says, hair brushing Ian’s arm. “You can touch me.”

Mickey’s moving slowly, teasing, so close that Ian has to hold his breath. Mickey moves to the other thigh as Ian softly touches Mickey’s hair with a groan, so happy he said he could. 

There is pause as Mickey licks higher inside of his right thigh. Ian shuts his eyes. He forgot again. Scars. From before. That book of matches yanking him back, each match a line, over and over, a smack in the face, a punishment. So high up the inside of his thigh he cried. Actually cried. Close to his dick, so he’d remember how much he gave away, how much he took. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Eyes on me. It’s okay.” 

Ian’s eyes are damp, but he doesn't look away. He’s deep in Mickey’s eyes, his hands, his life. “Mickey–”

Mickey’s mouth returns. He kisses that place, that broken and burned and punished place, just once, but so softly and reverently that Ian’s damp eyes blur. Mickey pulls away slowly, slides back up Ian’s body. “I’m sorry you were hurting so bad,” he says, quietly. His eyes are so blue, so overwhelmingly beautiful, holding him like that, safe like that. Ian nods. Nods again when Mickey’s thumb slides against his hair. “You wanna stop?” Mickey asks, quietly. “We can stop.” 

Ian feels himself shake his head, reach his hands out to hold Mickey’s face, pulling him closer, kissing him. “Keep going,” he says, and he means it. “Please.” Mickey nods, hand dropping, finding Ian’s cock again. Another pump and Ian groans against him. Another kiss before Mickey slides down. 

Mickey's mouth is hot around him, a little noise as he sucks the head, then releases. “Taste good,” Mickey says, voice low, and Ian can hardly look at him, hardly breathe. He tries so hard to stay still as Mickey's mouth begins to move and move and move.

Ian feels his thighs shake and move closer together. Mickey pulls off slowly. “Careful,” Mickey says, spreading Ian’s legs apart with his shoulders, just slightly, to give himself room, gently hold Ian back. Mickey dips, tongue working. Ian’s hands fly above his head, trying not to grab at him, trying not to move. 

Deep and down, and Ian feels his cock brush at the back of Mickey's throat, feels Mickey's head back off and lift, tiny, muffled cough.

"You don't have to," Ian says softly. "It’s, know it’s–what you're already doing is so–"

But Mickey smirks and goes back in, lips taking him deeper this time, and when Ian’s cock drags against the back of Mickey’s throat, he cries out. Ian's eyes drop to Mickey, looking up at him before he nudges him deeper in his mouth, pausing. Mickey holding him, accepting him, accepting everything about him, holding tight onto everything he is. 

Mickey pulls off, eyes hooded, little moan as he drops his forehead to press against in the inside of Ian’s hip, rest there, breathe Ian in. 

"Oh my god. Mick." Is he shaking? He is. "Feels so good." His breath feels fast in his mouth, so fast he can hardly catch it. 

Mickey breathes. He moves back over, sucks at the head of Ian’s cock, a tiny hum. He looks up at Ian as his head dips, lips dragging lower and lower, moving slowly down to where his fist works Ian up and down. Knuckles against lips, knuckles saying FUCK and Ian repeats the word because Mickey's fist drops and Ian is slowly but steadily sliding down and down, deeper than anything.

Ian lets out a long, drawn out sound, finding his hands in the sheets again, knuckles shaking. He can hardly catch his breath before Mickey slides up, just a bit, before he slides back down. Mickey holds him there, holds him, holds onto him tight, and swallows around him. Ian feels his mind go blank. It comes back to him as Mickey pulls himself back up, gasping, eyelashes wet, chin shining. 

“Come here,” Ian says, breathless, hand finding Mickey’s shoulder, pulling. “Fuck, come up here.” 

Mickey does, lips red and wet, a swipe of his hand against his chin. Ian's never seen anything as pure as this. He pulls Mickey up, breathes into his mouth, kissing the damp places, whispering. 

Ian turns Mickey on his back, arm bracing around his head, two fingers sliding Mickey’s hair back, staring down at him. 

Mickey squirms just a little under his gaze. “What.” 

Ian’s huffs a little, bending, smile dropping into Mickey’s chest. “What do you mean, what?” 

Mickey says, “Why were you looking at me like that?"

Ian pulls up, and his eyes meet Mickey’s. “Like looking at you,” he says. 

Mickey gives him a grin. “Come here,” he says, gesturing with his chin. 

Ian does. His drops his other arm beside Mickey’s head, forearms lowering his body slowly, sliding down to kiss him. Mickey hums, deepens it, slides his legs open for Ian to fit between them. Mickey's hands find the underside of Ian's arms, press in there, dragging up and down, smooth against the scarred places as Ian pulls him closer. Ian's eyes squinch shut and then open. 

Ian reaches down, starts to pull the thin barrier of Mickey’s boxers off, and sighs when Mickey is freed. "Holy shit, Mickey." He still has his foreskin, which Ian loves. He slides it back and forth, breathing hard when the shining head is revealed, then hidden again. “Fuck,” he says,

Mickey raises himself onto his forearms, looking down as Ian touches him. He looks embarrassed, sure. But his deep arousal is there, too. Ian swallows, trying to steady his breath. "Can I-" 

Mickey nods fast. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, yeah."

Ian’s voice is nearly a whisper as his head moves down. One more glance up, and he takes Mickey in this mouth, mind screaming with gratitude. He starts off slow, so slow, gradually increasing pressure as Mickey moves under him. When Ian has him sighing and squirming, he holds his hips softly, then tighter as he pulls Mickey harder into his mouth, a tap on the side of Mickey’s hip. 

“You sure?” Mickey breathes, and Ian moans around him. Mickey begins to move his hips toward him, slightly, then more certain. Ian reaches up again, pulls him firmly toward him, hands tightening on his ass, pushing up. Mickey moans. Inside Ian’s mouth he holds him, soft and deep, closer to his throat, back and forth. Mickey’s hand comes down, just a brush of Ian’s hair, his face, and they both groan as their eyes meet. Mickey knocks against the back of Ian’s throat. Knock knock. Again. Again. Again. Knock knock. Ian pulls his hips forward harder, bringing Mickey in deeper, welcoming him in, telling him to come in, to stay.

“Ian,” Mickey groans. “Ian, oh fuck, don’t wanna come yet. Hang on, hang on.” 

Ian backs off, breathes hard, rises to his knees, wipes at his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Mickey says, sitting up, legs trembling. trying to steady his breath, fingers pressing into his eyes. “Fuck, we need to relax a second.” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. He looks up at the ceiling, breathes 1 2 3 4, 1 2, 1 2 3 4. 

Mickey lips are open when Ian finds him again. Mickey slides his lip into his mouth, then releases. His hands smooth against his trembling legs.

“Wanna ask you something,” Ian says, before he realizes the question makes him nervous. Before, it’s been absolutely clear what he wants, what he gives to someone, no question. Sure, maybe a few times things have been different, but mostly not. But now, now he wants whatever Mickey wants, and he’s just not sure what that is. He _thinks_ he might know, but–

Mickey turns. “Sure. Yeah?” 

“How do you–" Ian asks, "What do you like?” Mickey’s eyes search his face. “Which way do you–”

Mickey squints. “You serious?” he says, a tiny touch of surprised annoyance. “You gotta know by now, man.” 

Something falls in Ian, just slightly, and then there is the thick jangle of nerves, a quick glance to the side, like the answer is written somewhere on the bedside table, the window, the doorway. “Ya never know. I–” 

Mickey lays back, pulling Ian on top of him so suddenly he barely registers it happening. Mickey smiles wide, opens his legs wider, hand steady on the small of Ian’s back, hips pushing up hard. “I mean, _I_ knew. Knew when I fuckin’ met you.” He grins, and Ian’s nerves float back out the door, looking for an open window. Ian presses down firmly against him as Mickey’s leg snakes up around his hip, clenches. Mickey’s hand comes up to Ian’s hair, a tiny pull. “This is how I like it. You in me. That okay?” 

“Yes,” Ian says, smiling. “Fuck yes it’s okay.” His hand slides down Mickey’s leg, already shaky around him. Ian’s hand slides against the mattress, finding Mickey’s ass, holding him steady, pulling him toward him just slightly. Mickey’s head goes back. His leg shakes harder. 

He feels a thick wave of want washing over him. “God, Mickey,” he breathes. 

Mickey hips roll up as hard as he can. “Stuff’s over there,” Mickey says, “The table there. Drawer.” 

“Mickey, you sure you have–”

Mickey groans, annoyed this time, but with a smile underneath. “Check,” he says. “Just check what’s in there.” 

Ian tosses the bottle of lube on the bed as he looks over the condoms in the drawer. There aren’t many, but he doesn’t see the gold packet he needs. Then his eyes fall on an unopened box, and he laughs a breathy laugh, turning to see Mickey smiling at him. “Presumptuous, are we?” 

Mickey’s leg knocks. “Am I wrong?” 

“No,” Ian laughs, “Not wrong.” Mickey’s hand comes up, lightly slaps his cheek as Ian tears the box open, so fast and uneven. Anxious, anxious. Finally he pulls the condoms out, has to steady himself to single out one, tear it from the line carefully. He tosses it on the bed. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, and it’s a plead, a question. Ian answers, lifting Mickey’s arms up softly, rubbing his arms before letting go, traveling down, kissing his way down Mickey’s chest, along his stomach. He answers as he drops deeper, licking and nosing along Mickey’s balls, the inside of his hips. His tongue reaches back to slide up along the underside of his cock, a small suck to the head to taste the precome building there, eyes firm on Mickey’s face. 

“Smell so good, Mickey. Fuck.” 

“Here,” Mickey’s hand pats around the bed, reaching for lube, and Mickey’s hand finds it, hands it over. Ian slips his hand with Mickey’s, letting the lube drop from their hands. “Feel like I’m getting open already,” Mickey whispers. “So fucking good.” 

Ian groans so deep it’s almost a growl. “Want you, Mickey.” 

Mickey moans, low and long, and tips his hips as Ian finds the lube again, the bottle opening with a click. His eyes lift to Mickey’s, wanting to see if it’s okay. Mickey reads him, nods. Ian breathes hard as he reaches back to Mickey’s calves, pressing firmly upward, over thighs, over hips, thumbs pressing slightly, reaching down his pelvis, brushing against him. Deeply. Firmly. 

Mickey’s hand pulls out of Ian’s, wrapping his arm around, holding on to the inside of his bicep, legs opening. Ian bends to kiss Mickey’s lips, sweet and soft, as his hand drops, one finger reaching, meeting, easing in. 

Mickey breaks the kiss, whispers into Ian’s mouth. “More. You gotta get in me before I come from all this.” Ian sits back, nudges Mickey’s legs closer together. 

Ian closes his mouth, tries to bite back the sound that it’s about to fall out. He slides in another finger, watches Mickey lick his lips. “Gotta let me do this, Mick,” he says, but he can barely speak. His fingers move gently, carefully. Mickey’s head twists against the pillow. Oh god. Mickey opens his eyes and Ian feels his head swim. “Just a minute.” 

“More,” Mickey says. “Need more.” Ian does. His forehead rests against Mickey’s shoulder, breath slow, one kiss, two. Mickey loosening, breathing himself open. His hand drops down to where Ian’s inside him, taps the back of his wrist. “That’s enough,” Mickey whispers, quickly. “That’s enough.” 

Ian backs up to roll the condom on. There is another click before he lubes them up again. The whole time, Mickey’s eyes are full on his. Ian gives him one last look, whispers. “We’ll start slow, ok?” 

Mickey nods, arms light against Ian’s back. Ian begins to press in, just a little, slow but steady. Mickey flinches, eyes closed. It’s just a little, but it’s there. “Fuck.” 

Ian stills, “You okay?” 

Mickey breathes out, nods. “It’s fine, just give me a sec.” 

Ian’s not sure. He doesn’t want to hurt Mickey. Not now, not ever. He’s not nameless, he’s not faceless. He’s not. He’s Mickey. He’s his.

“You,” Mickey says, “You can move. I’ll be okay.” 

But Ian moves slowly. He slides a bit deeper into Mickey, listens to his breath change, just slightly, before he slides just a bit more. Waits. 

Mickey’s breath deepens, a sudden O. Face changing, eyes opening, jaw dropping, moan rising, hands starting to rise up to Ian’s shoulders. “More,” he says as he exhales, voice loosening. “All of it,” he says. “Ready for all of it. Fuck.” 

Ian slides in and in and in and they both moan. Ian can feel every single nerve in his body cry out. “Oh my god, Mickey,” he whispers, but he can’t say anything more than that. His eyes squeeze shut, fighting to hold his mind still. 

He slowly looks down at Mickey. Mickey’s beautiful face, Mickey’s shaking exhale, Mickey’s eyes fluttering open as Ian looks at him. He nods, and Ian pulls back, slides back, and Mickey holds his shoulderblades harder. 

Ian presses back into Mickey, and they moan again. Mickey’s other leg comes up, gripping against Ian’s back. _Fuck fuck fuck._

“Deeper,” Mickey says. “Get deeper.” 

Ian does. He slowly thrusts into Mickey deeper, harder. “Feel so fucking good.” Mickey’s hands grab Ian’s ass hard, and Ian presses in harder. 

Mickey moans. He moans so hard, so loud, licks his lips as his eyes roll back. “So fucking deep, Ian. Feel you everywhere.” 

Fuck. Okay. Ian has to focus. This is what he’s wanted. Can’t rush now, as much as his body wants to. His hips snap forward once and Mickey cries out, hands grabbing at Ian harder. Ian’s hips begin to snap forward over and over, reaching for anything on Mickey he can touch. Mickey’s breath hot, quick, carrying light, high sounds, and all the sounds are yes and yes and yes. 

Ian is speaking, so many words, every word spinning back to Mickey and Mickey and Mickey.

On the next thrust Mickey moans, “Fuuuuck, Right there. Right. There.” 

Ian presses against that secret place, the place where Mickey feels him the most. Mickey’s head is back and back, and his hand drops to his cock, pumps it hard. “Gonna come, Ian, fuck. Fuck. Harder.” 

Ian does. Deeper. Harder. Eyes on Mickey, mind almost crashing into Mickey. The cells that make up Ian, the cells that make up Mickey, crashing against each other, sliding into each other, over and over and over. 

Ian throws his head back, “Oh, fuck. Come.” He groans. “Need you to come.” 

Mickey’s body trembles as he lets go, and Ian is not far behind him, voice carrying over them, low and long. 

They stay like that, connected like that, until Mickey starts to squirm with sensitivity and gently pushes Ian back. Ian carefully takes the condom off, a mess of tissues against both of them before they toss it all away.

They both pant hard, turning to look at each other, rest. Ian’s hand reaches out, brushing against Mickey’s hair, finger dipping to brush Mickey’s temple. Brush against the thick scar where his dad took everything away. His finger drops down Mickey’s face, finds Mickey’s lip and pulls it back gently. 

Mickey reads him, mouth warm and soft against his. When they pull apart, Mickey’s hand slides down Ian’s arm, and Ian offers him the inside, eyes wide but unashamed. Mickey presses hard and slides his hand down until he gets to Ian’s palm, which he lifts, kissing quickly before letting go. 

“Holy shit,” Mickey says. “Been waiting for that. But fuck, that was just– that was just–” 

“I know,” Ian says. “It was.” 

Mickey groans. Ian can feel Mickey’s leg shaking as he pulls Mickey closer. 

_I love you._ The words are right there, in his breath, on his tongue, the blink of his eyes, the fingers on Mickey’s back. _I love you._ But the words are stuck. 

Everything is overwhelming, suddenly, and Ian feels tears rising. He looks back, thinks about how he feels, how he felt, before. But there is nothing. Nothing that hurts, nothing that makes him want to run. It’s not the body. It’s his body. His eyes open. Breathing. Alive. There are no holes in his memory, no hopeful death in his arms. There is only this. This shining and warm and perfect thing. There is only Mickey, just here, just like this, holding him tighter, whispering “Holy shit, Ian” into his chest as Ian nods and nods and nods. 

*

There’s the smell of coffee, which would be be perfect if it didn’t mean Mickey was out of bed. Ian reaches for Mickey’s pillow and buries his face in it, inhaling deeply. Sleepy groan. 

“Come back here,” he calls out. “What are you doing?” 

“Making you breakfast, sleepyface. Get up.” 

“No. Come back here.” 

“Ahhhh,” Mickey says, annoyed. “Hang on.” 

When Mickey comes back, though, he has a big grin on his face and two cups of coffee. Ian stretches. “Well look at you.” 

Mickey has the faintest...blush? It seems like it. “Look at me what.” 

“Look at how good you look,” Ian says, sitting up. “So good,” because he does. Ian pauses to drink some coffee. “Wish you didn’t take a shower though.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Ian reaches for Mickey’s coffee, puts them both down. “Want to just smell how you smell.” He reaches over, pulling at Mickey’s hands, trying to pull him down on the bed. “You smell so good.” 

Mickey grins but pulls upright. "Go smell yourself, man. Breakfast’ll be on the table.” 

Ian groans, but he goes into the bathroom, uses the yellow toothbrush that’s been his, here, for months. He drags his fingers through his hair, the messed up places. He catches his smile in the mirror. Happy. 

There are eggs on the table, and toast, and Mickey’s brought the coffee cups back. “Your phone’s been going off,” Mickey says. “Didn’t look at it.” 

Ian shoves a mouthful of eggs in his mouth, digs in his backpack. It’s Lip. _Came home this morning. Where are you? Shacked up?_ There’s another one from Fiona. _You’re coming tomorrow with him, right?_ and one from Debbie. _Send me his picture! I bet he’s cute._ He shakes his head, puts his fork down. 

“What’s up,” Mickey says, shaking more Tabasco on his eggs. 

There’s the nerves jangle again. Ian’s not sure why he’s waited so long, but here he is. “It’s my family,” he begins. “Remember that night in the car?” 

“Uh,” Mickey says, drinking coffee, “Uh, yeah, I think I do.” 

“Fuck off,” Ian says, smiling. “That night my sister told me she wants you to come over for Thanksgiving. Wants to meet you.” 

Mickey’s eyes get a little wider. “They know about me?” 

Ian shrugs. “Well, I mean, yeah. They figured out something was up. Worried first, but told them about you. They’ve still been after me about you though. Secret boyfriend.” 

Ian freezes, chews slowly. He can’t look up, not yet. He’s scared to look up. Jangle jangle. 

“Oh yeah?” Mickey says. “Secret boyfriend? That’s what they think of me?” 

Ian sets his toast down. meets his eyes. “Mickey, I didn’t mean–” 

Mickey’s face is defensive, rough. “Didn’t mean what.” 

“It’s just, you know, ‘boyfriend.’ Sorry I said it.” 

“Sorry?” Mickey says. “I think I’m beyond a booty call at this point, don’t you?” 

Ian breathes out. “You are,” he says. “Course you are.” 

Mickey’s eyes move to Ian’s mouth, a smile, slow. “So let’s have this be that then. The boyfriend part. Or whatever word you want like that. I don’t give a fuck.” 

Ian feels warm, so warm, even though the room is drafty and he doesn’t have a shirt on. He feels Mickey, can almost touch the air around him. “Put your cup down,” he says. 

Mickey does, he looks up, smirking. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says, smiling, pushing his chair back. “Come here.” 

Mickey rises, no questions, stands still as Ian opens his legs to make room.

Ian lifts Mickey’s shirt, kissing his stomach, sucking just a little. Mickey groans. 

Ian guides Mickey’s legs around him, pulling him into his lap. Mickey looks almost shy, like he’s going to pull off, but Ian’s mouth meets his neck, pulling just a little. Ian remembers the night he saw Mickey’s chest, that night they first kissed, the first time they shared a bed. Remembers just before, Mickey pulling him in and into his neck. Mickey moaning, hands sliding into Ian’s hair, telling him what he wanted, just like he’s doing right now. 

“I forgot your neck,” he says, Mickey pulls at Ian’s hair as he hums into his neck, pressing in harder to the space above his collarbone, opening his mouth, sucking slowly, then harder, deeper. Mickey shakes against him, “Oh fuck, Ian.” But Mickey doesn’t beg. Ian’s mouth moves over. He lightly sucks once, twice, three times, before sucking hard again. MIckey’s breath comes fast, hips rocking, squirming. “Fuck,” he says, “Fuck fuck fuck.” 

They breathe into each others’ mouths, kissing hard every time Ian’s head lifts. Mickey’s eyes are hooded. Ian’s hands grip Mickey’s hips before sliding up his back, then stilling. 

They lock eyes. Their footsteps are fast. A blanket shoved out of the away as they lock themselves together, a pillow under Mickey and a fumble at the nightstand. Ian’s hand reaching down, Mickey more relaxed, this time. Careful slide, Mickey’s shudder, whispered words, face in Ian’s neck. Not pulling, not pushing. Just _There, Ian. Oh fuck._ Mickey cries out again, thigh shaky. “Oh fuuuuck.” His eyes pop open and Ian is there to hold onto him, hold onto his eyes. 

_Trust me._ Something passes, back and forth like Mickey’s hips, starting to stutter. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Ian groans, moves just a bit faster. Mickey drags his nails, lightly against Ian’s chest. “Eyes up,” Ian says as he reaches between Mickey’s legs, and Mickey does as Ian leans closer, hand pulling. He’s close. They’re close. So close. “Open your eyes, Mick, oh my god.” Mickey groans. There is the blue, blue on green. So close. So close. There. There. They’re there. 

They clean up and flop on their backs. It’s so hard to breathe. So hard to breathe, but Mickey’s face is damp, and Ian can’t stop smiling at him. He presses on the hickeys he made, likes the happy look on Mickey’s face when he complains. 

“I said you looked good,” Ian says, small laugh. “Said you should come back to bed.” 

Mickey covers his eyes with his hands, smiling, then open, turning, chin gesturing to Ian’s neck. “I got you too, you know.” 

Ian’s hand comes up, touching his neck, wincing. “Ah! No wonder it felt so good.” 

They breathe. Breathe in, breath out. 

“Is this to get me to come to Thanksgiving?” Mickey’s knee knocks against Ian’s. 

“Nah,” Ian says. “But I want you to come.” 

There’s a pause, and Ian turns. 

“You serious?” 

“Course I’m serious. I want you to come. You should come today, meet everyone, get ready for tomorrow. You still have Thanksgiving off, right?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says, smoothing Ian’s hair a little. “Yeah, but I gotta work on the piece of shit paper on that piece of shit book my piece of shit _boyfriend_ made me read.” 

Ian’s eyes close at the word, smile widening. “So tomorrow then? Might be able to pick you up if my brother has his girlfriend’s car. Otherwise you can call me on the train and I’ll run up to meet you.” 

Mickey nods. “Just answer your fucking phone tomorrow. Don’t like calling back a bunch of times.” 

“You could text.”

“Nah.” 

The breathe at the ceiling. Ian’s nose drops to Mickey’s shoulder, pulls him closer, buries his nose against his neck, his armpit. “Mmm,” he says. 

Mickey squirms, and Ian knows his embarrassed. “What.” 

“Smell so good.” 

Mickey groans, starts to roll out of bed. “You need to leave right now,” he says, stretching. “You stay any longer and I’m just going to want to fuck around all day.” 

Ian rolls onto his stomach and sighs. “Oh god.” 

Mickey kicks at him softly. “I mean it, Gallagher, get out of my house before I make you write my paper. I’ll see you in the morning. We waited this long. I think we can take, like, 25 more hours. Get out.” 

One more groan from Ian, and yes, fine, okay, yes, he’s getting up. 

*

Mickey decided to take the train. He sounded nervous on the phone, and Ian did his best to reassure him. But of course Mickey needs time, needs space, needs to be ready. Still, Ian hopes he’ll start today, at least a little. 

He’s nervous, too, which confuses him. Everyone was okay with the guy before. The guy before Ian got even worse. They even liked him. But this is different. This is _really_ different. He hopes his family can see that. Hopes they can see how hard he’s worked to move into this. This feeling of safety, of trust, of...face it...love. Even though he hasn’t said it yet, he knows he will, knows he will soon. Wonders if Mickey will say it first. Kind of wants him to. He won’t feel quite so scared. He’d say it back, he knows he would, but saying it first terrifies him. Saying it first could mean Mickey would say it back. Could say it back, but maybe–

His thoughts are shut off, thank god, when he sees Mickey coming down the stairs, tossing his cigarette in the street. 

“Hey,” Ian says, not wanting to startle him. 

Mickey grins. “Hey.” 

“Finish your paper?” 

“Nah,” he says. “It’s still a mess.” 

“You could talk to my brother Lip about it tonight,” Ian offers up. “He used to write papers for kids in high school. One of the ways he made the family cash. He’s a genius. He could help outline or something.” 

Mickey gives a little grunt. “He’s the one just outta college? Doing all the robotics?” 

“Yeah, Ian says. “But he still knows English papers.” He knocks Mickey in the shoulder, hearing the insecurity in his voice. “Don’t worry though. You’re worlds beyond him when it comes to embalming.” 

They laugh, pause at the door. Ian pulls on the edge of Mickey’s coat. His hand comes up, fingers grazing the top of his hand, just beneath the sleeve. “You ready?” 

Mickey swallows. “Sure.” 

Emma and Liam made a giant paper mache turkey and it’s the first thing Ian and Mickey see when they walk in the door. They run over with it so quickly it nearly knocks them down. 

“I did most of it,” Liam says, fighting for Mickey’s attention. “Emma’s a baby so she just helped paint it.”

Emma shrieks, and Ian says, “That’s Emma, my sister Debbie’s daughter, and that’s Liam, my youngest brother. They obviously have a paper mache dispute. It seems to be reaching a whole other level since you showed up.” 

Debbie runs over. “Mickey! Hi! Sorry about the paper mache thing.” She turns her eyes, still bright, this whole time, even after all the bullshit. “So nice to meet you.” She leans in quickly, grabbing him in a tight hug. 

There’s Carl, asking about dead bodies, which Mickey sidesteps with such incredible ease Ian’s jaw drops. There’s Fiona, asking more questions, obviously trying to gauge how long they’ve been together. There’s Lip, smiling like he’s almost laughing at Mickey, puzzled almost, but happy. 

Ian loves it all, loves the wide wave of their noise, their grabbing hands, running all over. But it can get overwhelming, he knows. Fiona runs to check the turkey, and Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s lower back, murmurs, “It’s a lot, it’s okay.” 

Mickey shifts from foot to foot, looking around quickly. One quick glance over to Ian. 

"Wanna step out?"

Lip's voice is casual, but Ian knows what he's aiming for. He gestures Mickey's way with a pack of cigarettes, box already open. He hopes Mickey takes the bait, and Mickey does.

Fiona puts her hands on her hips, eyebrow raised. 

“What?” 

“I must have missed something. Different shirt?” 

Ian looks down. “Oh, I guess. Changed it before Mickey came over.” 

Fiona breathes out a little laugh, starts to hug him, and Ian doesn’t hold back this time. He’s giving one back, not just accepting it. “I like him,” Fiona says. “Cute.” 

“Thanks,” Ian mumbles into her shoulder. “He’s good to me.” 

Fiona pulls her shoulder back, smiling big. “I can see that.” She leans closer, whispers, “Nice hickey. Go wash up.” 

Ian can’t help the smile that creeps out. Happy. Embarrassed. He’s not sure why, but his fingers find his neck, and he runs up the stairs, and when he finds himself in the mirror his eyes are so bright he can’t look away for a minute. Today, of all days, he feels like he shouldn’t be smiling, that he doesn’t deserve to be happy. 

He hears his family downstairs, yelling and laughing, and he remembers, even though he doesn’t want to, what happened That Thanksgiving with Monica. Fiona’s probably standing by the sink right now, finishing the mashed potatoes or whatever is happening. He looks down at himself. thinks about what he was thinking about, then. He never thought he’d understand Monica, that day. Never thought about it, later, when everything ramped up like it did. Not when all he felt was a circus in his brain, all sounds and lights and energy that never stopped, moving day to day to day without stopping. 

But the circus stopped, and then he understood why Monica did it. He understood, he felt it, he knew. He knew looking down, holding it. He didn’t think about scars. He just felt the fall, the fall from the wire. Wire so thin and sharp, and nothing would bounce him up again. Bounce him to the place where the circus was fun. Thin and sharp, and he was pulled away, pulled back, and stopped, standing there. Then sitting there. Then lying there. Quiet, quiet, and when it got louder, everything busy and bright, he realized the circus had shut down, tents down, elephants gone, only one acrobat left, dressed all in white, saying Ian. Ian. You’re at the hospital. 

The thought crosses over him, a thick whip ready to reach back around him, like some fucked up lion tamer trying to bring him back. But he moves away. He’s been in the lion’s mouth, over and over. He’s been in the cannon, over and over. He’s been on the high wire over and over, toes clenching. No ringmaster yelling his name. When Ian wakes up now, wakes up again and again, it’s gone. Not even the crunching sound of peanuts underfoot. No sticky steps and torn programs. It’s quiet. Open. Airy. Just a field again, like nothing was there at all. 

*

When dinner’s over, there’s a piece of paper in Mickey’s pocket with an outline of The Sun Also Rises, and Carl has given up talking about bodies. Ian was proud of Mickey, the things he said, like, “Everyone dies, but just like when people are alive, we shouldn’t talk shit about them, you know what I mean?” It’s something so pointed, so simple. He’d love to say, “He’s right, Carl,” but he wants this to be simple, to be Mickey, just as he is. Perfect. 

Debbie motions with her head toward the kitchen. Ian nods. 

“Be right back,” he says, tapping Mickey once on the knee. 

Debbie’s so tall, he realizes, suddenly. When did she get so tall? Her hair is getting darker, just like his. Part of growing up, I guess. But sometimes he thinks of them, who they were, before. Just kids and a squirrel fund, just moving Frank out of the way so they could have dinner. Back when Frank was alive. 

Debbie’s eyes glance to the living room, then where they stand in the kitchen. “Just want to see how you’re doing. Like, if you’re okay.” This is Debs, who she is, always. It makes Ian’s heart ache. “Just with Monica, and if it brings up stuff like, you know.” 

Ian reaches out for her, hugs her. She might be tall, but Ian can still put his chin on top of her head. “I’m okay, Debs. I’m not going there again. I get embarrassed sometimes, but I’m working on that. The stuff people can’t see feels harder to me.” 

“Just don’t want you to do that again,” Debbie says, voice wavering. “Don’t want that to happen to you.” 

“I know,” Ian says, quietly. “I don’t either. That’s why I’m doing so much work with the doctors and stuff. I’m not...I’m not–” _I'm not Monica._ It’s what everyone says they shouldn’t say, but sometimes they do, anyway. “I’m doing things differently. I’m happy. I’m steady. It’s gonna be fine.” 

Debbie pulls her head out of Ian’s chest. Her eyes are wet, after all. “I need you around,” she says. “Want Emma to grow up with you around.” 

Ian grins. “Well, that’s fantastic, because I plan on being around.” 

They hug again. They can’t help it. “He’s so cute,” Debbie says, and Ian feels her cheeks drawing into a smile. “Perfect for you. Can tell he makes you happy.” 

“He does,” Ian says. 

“Moving in with him?” 

Ian shrugs. “Never thought about it.” 

“You seem like you’re in love with each other, and you’re there all the time anyway.” 

Ian sighs. “Not that simple.” 

“Is so.” Debbie pulls herself off Ian. 

“What’s simple,” Mickey says. 

“Nothing!” Debbie says, quick little sound. “You want me to pack you up some turkey?”

“You should stay,” Ian says. 

Mickey’s eyes brighten. Face, too, but he tries to shake it off. “You have a full house, man. I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway.” 

Ian steps closer. “You _want_ to stay? Because I want you to.” He takes Mickey’s hands. Mickey looks embarrassed, just for a second, but it fades.

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “Yeah, I would, if you got space for me.” 

Ian pulls him in by his hips, presses his lips against Mickey’s quickly. “Course we do,” he says, “Always got space for you.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, gives him a little punch, but he’s smiling so wide Ian has to smile, too. It’s good, this is good, and the circus is far, far away.

*

Fiona has coffee ready, and Ian’s the first one up. He carefully unpeels himself from Mickey, pressed against him in his small bed. 

“Hey Fi,” he says, sitting on a stool at the counter. 

“Mornin’!” She pours out a cup for him. “Sleep good?” 

Ian hums over the lip of his cup. “Crowded, but perfect.” He gives a little wink. 

Fiona smiles.“Like him, Ian. See you like him too.” 

Ian smirks, “Well, uh, I think it goes without saying that I _like_ him,.” 

They laugh. Fiona puts her hand on her hip. “Think you know what I’m sayin’,” Fiona says. 

Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says He doesn’t say any more. Smiling, smiling hard. Shaking his head, blushing into his cup. 

Fiona’s face relaxes, just a little. “He know about,” he says, “Like, does he know that–” 

Ian rolls his eyes, holds out his arms. “Uh, that I tried to kill myself? Pretty sure a lot of people take their shirts off when they’re having sex, so yeah, he knows. But he knew before that, anyway. We took it slow, just being safe about everything.” So much of this is absolutely none of Fiona’s business, but he knows she will keep asking...and asking...and asking. “Fi, he knows everything.” 

Fiona doesn’t speak for a minute, jaw open. “Everything?” 

Ian presses his eyes hard against Fiona, trying to find the tiniest reflection of himself deep in the brown. His voice is even and stern. “Everything.” 

Fiona’s arm drops. “Well, that’s...Ian...that’s great. That’s really great. I’m real happy for you.” 

Ian sets his coffee cup down. “Huh.” 

“Huh what?”

Ian breathes in and out. 1234. “Sometimes I think you want me to stay sick. Want me to be sick so you can pretend you were there when things started out. Like, have a do-over.” 

Fiona’s eyes are wide. “Ian. Ian, I don’t want you sick. I swear. You been workin’ so hard. You did so good. I don’t want you sick. Even when you tried to–” 

“That’s the only time,” he says, but his voice is calm. “That’s the only thing you could understand. Everything else...with everything else, it was like, my fault. Like, I saw Monica, and I was supposed to just know. Just, you know, Not Be That.” He swallows. Calm. “That’s not how it fucking works, Fiona. That’s not how it works. You should know that. And you didn’t learn the difference. Not til way later, when this shit happened.” Ian turns his arms over. No one ever says what it is. What it was, really. “When I tried to die, Fiona. When I wanted to die and kill myself. When I was starting to die before Debbie showed up.” 

Fiona has tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. She can hold tears back harder than anyone has ever met. Anyone .

“Fiona,” he says. His voice is still calm, steady. “I’m not mad at you for that. I’m not. If I get mad, it’s that I want you to know that I’m still alive, and I can’t keep apologizing for what that means. What I am. Who I am. It’s fucking hard to be this, Fiona. Have this be, like, part of me. But that’s what it is. Just a part of me. I’m me. You have to let me be me. Have to let go, Fi. Just let go. You already have a do-over. This is it. This is what it looks like. Just let it be this. You can’t go back and fix it. I know that more than anybody.” 

Fiona’s voice breaks. “I just wanted to help you,” she says. “Didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know what to do. And then Debs...” 

Ian nods, looks into his coffee, dark like Fiona’s eyes, tries to see himself reflected in the dark. “Debs and I talked about it for a long time,” he says. “We still talk about it. Everything that happened, but that, in particular, a lot.” He clears his throat. “I’m still sad about it, feel guilty, but I can’t go back. Fiona, you can’t go back. Not that far.” 

They stare at each other until Fiona nods.

“You have to let it go, Fi.” he almost whispers it. “Anything you still wish you would have done for me. It’s a do-over, but this is where you have to start. Not then.” 

He drinks his coffee, then, eyes falling down. Fiona does, too. 

“Okay,” Fiona says, quietly. “Okay.” 

Ian meets her eyes. Nods. “Okay,” he says. He slides off the stool, hugs her. Hugs her for real, this time. They rub their noses, their eyes, into each other. “Okay,” he says, again, before slowly letting go. 

Fiona pulls down another mug and fills it with coffee. “He up yet?” Little smile. 

Ian shrugs, takes the mug from her hands. He pauses, a little shy. “You really like him?” 

Fiona nods, touches his arm. “I do more now, what you just told me bout him.” 

Ian grins, gestures with the mug. 

He walks up the steps, but Mickey’s sitting there. He looks nervous, but Ian hands him the coffee, happy to see him. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. He looks down at the coffee. “Was thinking. You wanna, like, bring some stuff to my place before we go? Like shirts and clothes or whatever?” 

Ian’s quiet. So quiet, smiling so hard, loving how much he’s nervous, how much he wants him to come with him, stay. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, let’s do that.” 

“Yeah?” Mickey’s still nervous, but it’s slipping away. “Okay.” He drinks some coffee. “Let’s grab some stuff, maybe? Gotta work soon. I’ll get ready.” 

Fiona’s in the living room, cleaning up whatever got left out last night. Ian looks around the kitchen, and lets his eyes fall down on the kitchen floor, where Monica sat those years ago. He didn’t understand, then. Didn’t know. Sometimes, when he thinks about it, he feels phantom pains in his arms. Just the start of that high wire, falling. Just opening his eyes, after. 

Now, looking down, he doesn’t feel that. Doesn’t feel his arms at all. He just breathes there, breathes in and out, not even counting. Just living, breathing, living.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey feels pressure. The couple runs into a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! This fic was supposed to end at chapter 7. Lucky you - I need another chapter to wind it up plot wise and timeline wise.

The hardest part these days is when Mickey’s up in the rooms, in a suit, and Ian can’t touch him. 

Can’t touch him. Can’t even start. Not even a brush on the arm, because then...well...then. Instead, he just has to stand near him, greeting people, guiding people into this room or that room, bringing the coffee on the little trays. Moving flowers around. 

Mickey’s been working upstairs a lot more. Ever since Thanksgiving, things have felt tense with the three siblings. Ian would have blown it off as just a moody week, but it’s stretched on and on. Ava and Matt downstairs, almost all the time, Jay hiding out until intakes come in, then slapping on a strange smile and going through the motions. As a result, Ian and Mickey have been running things upstairs. Every part Jay doesn’t want to do, which is everything. The wood has never been polished so well. The office has never been more organized. Even the elevator is cleaner than Ian thought possible, and most people who make the ride up can no longer see at all. 

Ian can’t touch him, even when he wears that dark grey dress shirt. _Especially_ when he wears that shirt. Mickey’s worked downstairs, sure. But upstairs is where he technically belongs. Where he has been, even more than before. Ian’s seen him in suit after suit after suit. Before, it used make his hands sweat, swallow hard. Try and play it cool, which, according to Lip, he’s never been able to do. 

But now. Now Ian knows every single inch of Mickey’s body. He knows what Mickey looks like, clothes off, exposed and spread out beneath him, licking his lips, panting. He knows where Mickey likes to be touched. How hard, how soft. He knows what Mickey wants him to do with his fingertips, his hands, his lips and teeth and tongue. Now Ian knows the smell of him, the taste of him, the way his body rises and shakes hard enough that Ian’s hand finds his hip so he can get deeper, harder. Now he knows Mickey likes to touch his hair, his face, so softly, like Ian’s a shining bubble just about to burst. He knows it, and he likes it. Likes it because it makes him feel safe, loved, alive. 

“You okay?” 

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes. “Oh,” he says, smiling. “Yeah, sorry.” 

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “What’s up.” 

Ian shrugs, moves some flowers. “It’s not work stuff. Just, you know, home stuff.” He cocks one eyebrow, eyes not moving from the lilies. 

“A-ha,” Mickey says, the slightest tease in his voice. Enough for Ian to bring his head up, smile at him. “Right.” 

There was never a moving-in conversation. Ian never even asked Mickey if he overheard Debbie on Thanksgiving, but he’s pretty sure he did. They each brought a garbage bag of Ian’s stuff on the train after leaving the Gallagher’s, dumping them inside the door at Mickey’s before heading to work. When they got home, Mickey moved things into drawers, the closet, the bathroom. A couple weeks later, they went back to get Ian’s winter boots, which leaked a bit at the toes, but better than his low-rise chucks. On Christmas Day, they brought home wool socks and some books. Went out an bought two more pillows. It was all there, suddenly, and Ian loved it. 

Mickey straightens all the chairs. Ian vacuums, preparing for tomorrow’s service quietly and quickly. 

Ava’s voice is loud, startling. “Guys.” 

A jump from both of them, a turn. 

“Guys, we gotta talk.” 

* 

“Matt’s what?” Mickey breathes it. 

Ava swivels in Jay’s chair. “Matt’s out.” 

Ian ignores the squeak of the chair, sees the small shake in Ava’s fingers, fingernails bitten. “What do you mean, ‘out’.” 

Ava sighs. “He’s like, _out_ out. Like, he doesn’t want to be in this anymore. Doesn’t want be here anymore. Like, be _this_. At all."

“Fuck,” Mickey says, quietly. “Fuck, Ava. I’m sorry.” 

Ava breathes out, slowly, tears filling, just a little. “It’s not like, a surprise?” A tear rolls down, voice tight. “But it is?” She wipes her cheek. “He’s never wanted this. Not ever. But Jay and I just thought he’d do it anyway. I guess not. I guess he wants out. Out of all of it. Doesn’t even want to keep his chunk and be silent. Just a payout and he’s gone.” 

Mickey’s head moves around, eyes catching every corner, every line of the office. “Gone? G-Gone like what. Like, something else? Like what?” 

Ava shrugs. “Had a blowout on Thanksgiving. He said he wanted to move. Didn’t say where. Didn’t say when.” She clears her throat. “He’s never been chatty. Never felt connected to us. Talked with mom a lot, but not us. Ever since she died, he’s basically closed up completely. We really tried to reach out to him, but he’s just not like that. Keeps to himself. Lashes out. Doesn’t want to talk about anything.” 

Mickey looks at his lap. “I know about that that stuff kinda.” 

Ava makes a little sound. “So I don’t know. He’s out. Jay and I made a deal with him. He agreed, so we have some time at least." 

Ian looks at Mickey, then back at Ava. “What's the deal? How much time?” 

Ava’s eyes fall on Mickey. “Three months. When Mickey’s done.” 

Mickey’s eyes widen. “The fuck's that mean?"

Ian reaches out to tap his knee. “Done with school. When you’re done.” 

Mickey’s eyes fly wide, he stammers a bit, squirms in his seat. Ian’s hand slides up, takes his hand. “What’s that mean?” 

Ava leans closer, pushes a pile of papers away. “It means that when you’re done, when you graduate, you’ll decide to stay here with us. And you’ll be official and we won’t be pressing on the slim parameters of apprenticeship and get even more shady. 

"But what if I-"

"Look, you’re already better than I was when I started. You're better than I was for a long time.” She smiles, just slightly. “Milkovich, I’ll say this once. Once. Just. One. Time. You are better than me. Me in the past tense, of course.” 

“Present,” Mickey mumbles, slight smile. “Present tense.” 

“Ugh. No,” Ava says, little tension-breaking laugh. “Knew I shouldn’t have said anything, you little shit.” 

Mickey clears his throat. “But what if I don’t,” he clears his throat. “What if I can’t pass? You know, pass the other stuff.” 

Ian grips him harder, turns toward him. “You’ll pass,” he says, evenly. “Mickey, there’s no way you won’t pass.” 

“You’ll pass,” says Ava. “You will. Then you come back here and hang out with me all day and Matt’s free. Simple.” 

Mickey’s eyes fall into his lap. “Simple, huh? That what it is?"

“I know you and I love you,” Ava says. “Stop freaking out so hard. It’s gonna be fine. You guys’re off tomorrow, then we're closed down for the holiday. Just take it easy.” 

“Easy,” Mickey says, “Sure. Easy.” 

*

“God fucking shit fucking dammit.” A toss of the keys, too hard on the table, missing the bowl. Yanking off boots, snow flying off the rug and onto the wood floor, clumps that turn to water, that seep into socks in the morning with a groan. Mickey throwing his coat into the living room, stumbling to the bedroom with a heavy flop, snow still crusted on the ankles of his jeans

Ian has to pull his little smile into an even line. “Are you done yet? Need your little blanket or a bottle or anything?” 

Mickey groans into the pillow, doesn't raise his head. "Fuck off." A smile, probably.

Ian flops down next to him, finger tapping experimentally at his head, just above the shell of Mickey's ear. "What's your biggest one? The biggest worry."

"Won't pass history. I'll get funeral history. That's not it. Those other ones. Two classes. I suck at it." Mickey rolls over slowly and breathes deeply when he finds Ian's face. 

"You're getting better," Ian says. 

Mickey stares at the ceiling. He stares a long time. He closes his eyes for a long time, opens them. Wet. He sniffs hard. 

"Mandy," Mickey begins. "Mandy had this thing where she'd tell me these stories from her history book like they were happening now. Like, I remember one about The Civil War that was all about gangsters and mafia kingpins. 

Ian offers a hand out, but Mickey doesn’t take it. “She was just really smart, man.” Mickey says. “Smart and then she did that stupid shit. I don’t fucking get it. Coulda been better than any of us.” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “I think,” he begins, “I think we all do stupid things. Not things we know are stupid at the time, but stuff that we can’t take back. Some things can be really big. Too big. Too big to take back.” He swallows. “Some things are too big, and you disappear. Sometimes for a while, sometimes forever.” 

Mickey raises himself on one elbow. He stares into Ian’s eyes. Ian can’t see what he’s trying to say. He can always see what he’s saying, there in the blue. Can speak back with green. Green on blue. But now he can't. Can't see it. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4.

“What,” Ian breathes. He feels nervous, deeply nervous, like he crashed through a boundary Mickey held close. Punched holes in it. He feels nervous, like he’ll never know what to say. Never know how to ask about Mandy. How to comfort him. Not even if they are together for years and years. “What’s–”

Mickey’s other hand falls to the scar on Ian’s arm. “What’d it feel like? Like, could you feel it? Like, could you could feel yourself––” 

"Dying?” Ian says it very softly, his eyes telling Mickey it’s okay to say it, okay to ask, that his nerves can slip out of the room, this room that is safe, that is theirs. 

Mickey’s eyes lift to the ceiling. His hand rises, rubs at his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Ian looks inside himself. He can see it, see himself. See himself looking down a dark road, squinting to try and find that small circus that left without him. See himself trying to run after it, trying so hard to feel that good again. Getting lost, legs giving out as he ran, falling. 

He sees himself standing there. Looking out. For a long time, he would think about the weight in his hand, a little bird. He would think about his heart beating hard. But then there’s a space, a space where he saw himself from the outside, inside hidden. There was a strange buzz, a strange taste in his mouth, the feeling of his body flying up. He knew he moved over to the right arm, he remembers thinking he should, probably should, do that before he sat down. He couldn’t really see anything else. He remembers sitting down. After that, there is a lifting and a lifting, just a strange lifting, a feeling of lifting, a comforting lifting, a confused lifting. A lifting he tried to reach and reach, but it was like a glass balloon, over him, delicate, impossible to catch. 

“Kind of,” Ian says, his other arm coming up to rub Mickey’s hand. Rub Mickey’s hand on his hand, his arm, his scar. He turns his head. “It just felt like something kind of shifted over for a while and felt really different. Like, who I was and what the world was and just,” He takes a breath. “It’s hard to explain.” 

The corners of Ian’s eyes burn. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4. He realizes, then, that no one has asked him how it felt. How it felt, really. In his mind. It’s not that he wants to think about it, it’s not that he’s eager to. But Mickey asking about it is to ask for trust, and to offer it. 

“Were you scared?” Mickey has never said anything so quiet. 

Ian moves up on his side, turns over. Mickey does the same. Ian’s hand slides Mickey’s hair back, falls down to his cheek, thumb brushing his lips before his hand drops. “No,” he says. “No, I wasn’t.” 

Mickey closes his eyes, and he shoves his forearm over them. Sharp intake of breath, one _fuck_ that sounds choked and wet. 

Ian pulls his body closer, holds Mickey closer. “I know it was different,” he whispers. “It was different for her. It wasn’t her decision.”

MIckey drops his arm, presses his face into Ian. It’s aimed in his chest, but it’s a sudden smash in. Part in his neck, part shoulder, part arm. “I just,” he says. “I just want to know if there’s any time where it just doesn’t fucking hurt anymore.” 

Ian has to close his eyes. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ He kisses the top of Mickey’s head, holds his lips there. Lets his hand rise to meet Mickey’s face. “Yes,” Ian says, firmly. He hopes, for Mandy, it was true. He hopes.

Mickey rolls them over, guides Ian’s body over his and holds him there, chest to chest, head turned away. It’s something he's realized that Mickey does, sometimes. He likes the feeling of being covered, weighted down. It’s not about sex, it’s nothing like that. The first few times, Ian felt uncomfortable, tried to roll away from him. It was different from sex, when everything is open, whispering, wet. This was closed, heavy. Ian would try to lighten the load of his body by propping up an arm, but eventually he got the message that Mickey wanted him just like that. Just like that. Weighted down hard. Weighted down when he was jumpy, nervous, scared. 

After a while, Ian noses against Mickey’s shoulder. His skin is warm and sweet. “Want me to make you some food? Heat up some soup or something?” 

“No thanks,” Mickey says, muffled. “I’m okay.” 

“Sleep, then?” Mickey nods beneath him. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be back in a little bit.” He starts to pull off Mickey, bit by bit so he doesn’t get dizzy. 

“Ian, wait.” Mickey grabs at him, pulls him back, holds him harder. “Wait. Just wait a second. Just give me a second.” 

The room is warm. The old radiator clanks and hisses as the hot air tries to come through the bedroom. 

Mickey squirms beneath him. Ian feels his chest pushed gently up, and then Mickey’s hands wrapping up around him. It’s awkward, and Ian doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing. How Mickey wants his body to be, how it should press in or lift. “Mick,” he begins. “What’s–”

Mickey’s eyes are red-rimmed and he wets his lips, but his words are steady and clear. “I love you.”

Ian’s vision circles and circles tighter and tighter until all that remains is Mickey’s face. His mouth is dry. His body tingles. 

Mickey says it again, louder this time. “Ian, I love you.” 

Ian’s mouth drops those small inches to graze Mickey's. There is a moment, one moment, when Ian thinks it’s not the right thing, not what Mickey wants, not now. But Mickey’s hands fly up and grab at Ian, legs opening, knees bending as he pulls him closer. So much closer. 

Ian pulls his mouth away, and that’s when he realizes how hard they had been kissing. It feels like being pulled out of quickstand. “Mickey,” he breathes, but Mickey pulls him back in, pulling at his hair, pulling at his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, pulling his naked torso closer. Mickey releases his moans into Ian’s open mouth, guiding his tongue, guiding their mouths. Ian’s eyes squinch shut, hands on Mickey’s head as he slides himself up, just slightly, against him. Mickey shakes, pulls at Ian harder. 

“Mickey,” Ian says, pulling away again. ”Mickey, Mickey wait.” He stumbles over his words. Mickey’s eyes open.

Blue on Green. Green pressing into blue. _Trust me._ “What? You okay?” 

Ian nods. “I’m okay. I just, I just.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. His legs shake, far away from him. “I love you too. God I fucking lo–” 

Mickey pulls him in again, back in the quicksand. Lips and tongues and teeth and breath. Mickey’s ankles hooking around Ian’s back, trying to press him in harder. 

Ian can hardly breathe. “I have to,” he tries to pull away, but Mickey’s hands and arms are too strong, strong enough they make Ian groan every time. “I have to get these pants off,” he says. “Work ones. Didn’t change after.” 

Mickey’s hand drops, cups him, a squeeze, fumble and tug. His voice is low, “Do it now or I’m gonna fuckin’ rip em off you.” 

Ian head falls forward, weakly stifled sounds, but his hand finds Mickey’s and guides it off. Unzips before he carefully takes them off. He hears Mickey’s impatient noise, and he closes his eyes, waits. He slowly slides his body up. 

Mickey’s mouth is slack, eyes closing and then opening, pulling his shirt off. Ian’s hand finds the button on Mickey’s jeans, listens to his breath hitch as he carefully unzips him. He takes them off so slow, so slow, fingertips lightly scratching, just a little bit, on Mickey’s thighs, then pressing in so deeply that Mickey arches his back a second, whispering _touch me you stupid fuck._

Ian pulls back with a smile and a tsk tsk sound. He leans over him, a hand on their headboard. He starts to lower his chest, just slightly, enough that they almost touch, but pulls back when Mickey reaches up for him. Mickey’s hand comes up and Ian takes it in his, brings it to the headboard and holds it there. Mickey pants. “Ian,” he pants, eyes rolling a bit. “Ian, c'mon.” 

He squeezes Mickey’s hand a little, waits until Mickey stops squirming, begins to still. He lets go of the headboard, sliding his way back to Mickey’s body, keeping his hand in his. A sharp whine rises up when Ian’s mouth meets Mickey’s neck. Mickey’s free hand comes up, cards into Ian’s hair. “Fuck, this is so good.” 

Ian’s hand squeezes Mickey’s again. “Love us like this, Mick." It’s so much. So much he’d never thought he’d be able to say. Something he’d feel worthy of, again. 

Mickey’s hips thrust against him as he groans. “So good with you. Love you so fucking much.” 

There are no more clothes. There are hands and there are mouths and _fuck_ and _yes._ There is Mickey's mouth tight around him, sliding hot and deep and steady. Ian shaking beneath Mickey's mouth, Mickey's hands. Ian shaking so hard he has to let go, Mickey’s throat open, accepting him. 

There is Mickey, kissing him. There is Mickey, mumbling something, Ian answering, voice soft. _What? You can tell me. It's okay. Tell me what you need. Tell me what you want._ Mickey's voice, embarrassed, mumbling, eyes down. Mickey saying _But you don't, you don't have–_ until Ian interrupts with a shh and a shh-shh, turning Mickey over carefully. His forearms, his knees, a lick to the back of his neck. 

There is Ian kissing down his spine, so slowly, down and down until his tongue finds him, pointed pressure as Mickey gasps, head back, every word softly pulled out as Ian's tongue softly glides against him. Ian hums, rocks him back and back. Mickey's voice is quiet but unsteady. Body shaking hard everywhere as Ian's pace begins to change. A sharp intake of breath as he gets deeper. He tightens his grip on Mickey's ass, pulls him closer until Mickey begins to push back, slow at first, then faster as he begins to relax into it, moaning. Ian hums again, thumbs pulling him even further part. 

Mickey looks over his shoulder, and Ian can see his mouth wide open, eyes fluttering, reaching softly to touch Ian's hair, his temple. Mickey nods as his eyes dart from his face, "It’s okay," he breathes. "You don't have to. I'm ready."

Ian raises an eyebrow as he pulls away. "You really you want me to stop? I can keep going. Wanna make you feel good. You feel good, Mick."

Mickey lets out a low sound. He says words that aren't loud, but the words _please and please and yeah_ feel loud in Ian's ears. He groans. 

Ian's hand softly slides between Mickey's shoulder blades, lightly pressing Mickey down until his top half presses into the mattress. Mickey moves easily, like he was hoping for this. Ian nudges Mickey's legs apart, whispers "Need you to push up higher. Lower your knees and drop your back. Can you that for me?" 

Mickey doesn't hesitate. He whines as he adjusts himself, raises himself higher in the air. Ian breathes hard as his hands gently sweep against his ass, adjusting his hips a tiny bit, just to hear Mickey pant. He does. Ian knew he would. Ian holds him open, thumb grazing him. "Mickey. Do you want this? Want me to do this with my mouth?" 

Mickey nods furiously into the pillow, groans "Yes," and Ian returns, mouth steady, taking his time, relaxing him, opening him up. He reaches below with one hand to stroke him, but Mickey is already hard, leaking, ready.

Ian pulls away and Mickey breathes "fuck" against the pillow. Mickey rises off the bed, watching with hooded eyes as Ian strokes himself, reaching for the lube and condom. Ian crooks his finger and taps the underside of Mickey's chin, bringing a wide, breathy laugh from both of them.

There is a click. Mickey turns, forearms and knees. Ian spreads the lube against both of them quickly but thoroughly, fingers sliding easily into Mickey as his head rolls back. 

Mickey lowers his body again, ass rising. "Like this," he whispers. "Like this, Ian, fuck."

Ian says yes and yes. His lips crash into Mickey's neck, small nip. Ian lowers himself, caressing Mickey's body with his own. He pulls back, slowly. He smoothes his hands against Mickey's back, dipping into his shoulder blades to press lightly down again, holding him there as he pulls him higher. Releases his hand as he pulls him apart. 

"Harder," Mickey whispers. "Hold me harder. Don't let go."

Ian shudders as his hand comes down to rest on his back again, more pressure. "Yeah," Mickey breathes."Yeah, Ian, fuck." Ian sighs, sliding the tip of his cock back and forth against Mickey, soft squirm, more pressure. A release of his hands so they can begin.

Mickey reaches back, head still on the pillow, hand on Ian’s leg, Ian thinks he hears _please_ but his heartbeat is too loud in his ears. 

Ian guides himself into Mickey, moans quietly, fingertips alive as they travel to Mickey's shoulders and press him down. Mickey sighs. "Wanted this so bad. Just like this, Ian. Wanted you to fuck me like this. Fuck."

This confession, loose and shining, rattles in Ian's ears. These things, these are things Ian can give to him. He wants to give them, wants to share them. Wants Mickey. Every new thing Ian says, too, are caught and held. The embarrassment doesn't stay, not when they breathe this fast. Not when they say things like want and need and please. 

"So good, Mick," he says, mouth dry. He pushes his hips against Mickey harder, hand cupping his hip, trying to hold him steady, but he's shaking too hard. "Look so good like this. So fucking hot. Oh my god." Ian has set a slow pace, but thrusts deeply, firmly. Mickey’s lip is caught in his teeth and then out again, cheek against the pillow, eyes closed as he shifts up and down with Ian's thrusts. Ian’s breath is fast. His hands pressing against Mickey’s skin buzz and tremble. 

Fuck. Mickey whines, pants fast, clenches. It means one thing. "Gotta come. Fuck." 

Ian snaps in harder, and Mickey yelps.

"Not yet," Ian pants. "Please. Hold on." Ian's forehead dips to meet Mickey's damp skin. Mickey whines again. "Mickey. Mickey wait. Fuck. Fuck, hold on." He groans deep, snaps again. Thrusts hard as Mickey cries out again and again. Snaps again. Harder. Faster. Again as Mickey shakes beneath him, voice beginning to change again, a new sound, unraveling fast. More. Fuck. Hang on hang on. Okay. Oh fuck, hurry up. I'm gonna. I hafta. Close. Do it. Oh fuck. 

There are these words. There are these things and more, but as they spiral down, there are whispers of _I love you,_ stronger than any other sound, more than any sound that carries over them, whatever noises they make, the sound louder than the radiator clanging and hissing, heating water until it boils and moves. 

*

“So, New Year’s.” 

Mickey looks up from his book, drops his pen. “So New Year’s what?” 

Ian brings sandwiches over, canister of Pringles. “So what are we gonna do? You wanna do something?” 

Mickey shrugs. “New Year’s always been weird.” 

Ian takes a bite of his sandwich, tries not to talk with his mouth full, but fails. “Weird how?” 

Mickey takes a bite, chews thoughtfully before pushing his hand into the pringles canister. “Used to be a great night to steal shit,” he says. “Dad made me an’ Iggy get the van out, go look for houses with just a porch light on. People were usually gone. New Year’s parties. Especially a whole block. If they had some alarm, just let it blast, grab whatever you could. There’s just not a lot of people around. No alarm people, even. Maybe just checking the phone now and then, but once the liquor flows, it’s like a free for all.” 

Ian nods. “So you done anything since then?” 

Mickey pulls his head back. “Steal shit?” 

Ian shakes his head, small laugh. “No not that. Like, celebrated. Something fun.”

Mickey shrugs. “Nothing different from any other day.” His tongue finds the corner of his mouth, teasing. “Planned on fucking you, but that’s my only plan.” 

Ian kicks at his foot under the table, laughing. “Come on,” he says. “For real. Do you want to do something? Go to my family’s house? They usually have some sort of thing going on.” 

“Your family always has something going on. So many of ‘em, plus those neighbors and stuff. That what you wanna do? See your family?” 

Ian tips his head to the side. “Only if you want to. Just throwing it out.” 

Mickey nods, gestures to his book. “Can you help me with this shit first?” 

Ian grins. “Yeah, I’d love to.” He moves his chair closer, moves the sandwich closer, moves Mickey’s book closer. His eyes scan the page, his hand absentmindedly rubbing Mickey’s thigh under the table. 

Ian is brought back to himself as Mickey’s hand pushes him off. “Don’t fucking touch me.” 

He laughs. “What, am I going to distract you?” He laughs harder when Mickey flips him off. Ian flips the pages of the book. “This will probably be easier. Civil War to present. Present being not so present, now. Easier to hook things together, maybe. This another paper or a test?” 

Mickey brushes his hands together, the last of the sandwich gone. “Test, end of February. Freaking the fuck out.” 

Ian shakes his head. grabs Mickey’s arm. “Your paper was good. Even if you bomb it,” Mickey’s forehead becomes a pile of wrinkles. “Which you _won’t,_ I think you can balance a lot of it.” 

“Whatever, man,” he mumbles, gruffly. “Gonna go out and smoke. Let’s just drop this shit. Figure out what time we should get over to your family’s.” 

Mickey shuts the door, and Ian goes back to Mickey’s book, lifting the pages up until he’s at the front. He settles in. Starts reading. 

*

Only an hour left to go, but Ian can tell Mickey’s tired. He keeps catching him sitting down in the kitchen, but the vision of him talking to Debbie is almost overwhelming. He hears Debbie laughing hard at something, and Ian feels a strange swell of pride for both of them. He can’t hear what they are saying, even this close. He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, a smile he can feel on his mouth. 

Debbie stands, heads toward the fridge, pulls two beers out, some fancy ginger ale for Ian. She heads over, slight wobble. “Oh my god, Ian,” she says. “I love him so much. He’s so perfect.” She’s a happy girl when she’s tipsy, and it doesn’t take much. “So perfect,” she says again. 

Mickey turns and laughs a little loud. “I can hear you!” 

They laugh again as Debs goes back to the table. They clink bottles, both taking a huge glug at once, 

Ian looks at his bottle of ginger ale, turns in the doorway to see the rest of the party. Carl keeps trying to get Liam on his shoulders. Fiona’s dancing with Vee, Lip and Kev are talking in the corner. Lip doesn’t gesticulate much unless he’s smoking, but he’s obviously working something out, because they both have smirks on before Amanda yanks him back. Ian watches them all sway and laugh. It starts to feel a little unreal. It’s like TVs for sale in a store, playing different shows, different pictures, sharp, fast, slow. He has a sudden, creeping feeling he isn’t really there, that he’s a picture of himself. He takes a swing of the ginger ale and sets it down, arms crossing, fingers tapping quickly on his biceps.

He hears Mickey’s laugh behind him, but he doesn’t turn. It’s a real laugh, one that is so open and unafraid Ian can hardly breathe. So much is so right. Even from the outside, there is so much falling into place it’s amazing. There is love there. So much love, and Ian can almost see this a glow. Such a happy glow. Thirty minutes until they will all count, and the glow will just get brighter. 

Lip heads over, “Hey.” 

“Hey!” Ian says. “Hang on.” He backs up, opens the fridge, hands Lip a beer. 

“Thanks dude,” Lip laughs. “You doin’ okay?” 

“Sure,” Ian says. “Wish I could drink, but oh well.” 

Lip squints a little. “But you did, right?” 

“A little,” Ian says, exaggerated confession. “Like three.” 

Lip sighs. “You know that’s not good.” 

Ian shrugs, “I know. Not a big deal though. It’s New Year’s.” Lip’s face still looks strange as Ian gestures to the ginger ale. “I got this though, so it’s not a big deal.” 

Lip taps a cigarette out, lights it. He passes it to Ian. It tastes good, something like soaked raisins and a campfire and Ian likes the way he can picture it swirling up to his head and then down to his lungs. He passes the cigarette back to Lip. 

“Ian, your eyes are wide.”

No. No, they aren’t. They aren’t. Ian can feel them. They aren’t. There’s just his eyes. He doesn’t answer. 

Lip passes the cigarette over. “Do they feel wide?” 

Ian can feel his teeth clench. “No.” 

Lip reaches for the cigarette, takes a long drag. Shrugs. “You wanted me to let you know.” 

Maybe that last beer was a mistake. Maybe he needs some air. Maybe this is that overstimulating thing the doctor talks about all the time. Maybe Lip just has to shut the fuck up. Ian takes a big breath, shakes his head as he pushes past him. Ian grabs his coat, slips out the front door. 

The stoop is cold under him. His breath slides out and in again. He watches the air become a cloud and then dissipate. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4.

It was beer. He’s not supposed to drink. He knows it. It was that. He feels fine. There’s nothing wrong. He’s fine. He flips through the last few weeks, trying to find small pieces missing. There’s nothing wrong. It’s fine. It’s fine. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4. Fuck. 

Fuck. 

He can hear Fiona yelling “Shut up shut up shut up.” 

Mickey opens the door. “There you are.” He’s perfect. He wishes he wasn’t going to do this to him. Is he going to do this? The fear is there. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be this. Please. 

Mickey sits down next to him. “You okay?” His hand reaches up, slides against his forehead. 

Ian nods. “I think so.” 

“What’s up.” 

Ian looks at him. “Do my eyes look wide to you?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t think so.” 

Ian looks down at his hands. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. 1 2 3 4. He breathes out. He can’t do this. Panic like this. The doctor tells him not to panic. He’s learned not to panic. Just because one thing seems off, even for a second, doesn’t mean he’s getting hypomanic. It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay. And he’s happy. 

Fiona yells again. “I said shut up!” They all start counting, laughing, yelling. 

Mickey reaches for one of Ian’s hands, slips it into his pocket. Mickey’s pocket is warm and his skin is soft. They count and Ian’s eyes find Mickey’s. They stare. They wait. 4.3.2.1. 2.1. They kiss. They kiss and it’s quiet, long, deep, perfect. Ian is still. He’s okay. It’s fine. 

*

It’s been three days, and nothing has happened. He feels better, happy. One morning he gets up earlier than Mickey, picking up where he left off in his history textbook. He fills his coffee cup again. He catches himself jiggling his legs under the table, bouncing them up and down. He notices, stops. He reads about the march on Washington. He’s never been to Washington. Sometime he’d like to see that statue of Abe Lincoln. Maybe he’d be able to sneak his way onto his lap somehow. Maybe he can go when the cherry blossoms are in bloom. That looks pretty in this other picture. He turns the page and sees Martin Luther King giving his speech. His arm is up, and Ian thinks of Malcom X with his fist up. That reminds him of Malcom X where he started taking classes before he slipped back again. His arms itch. He jiggles his leg under the table, coffee sloshing over the top of the mug. 

“Shit,” Ian says, but he wipes it off with his arm, keeps reading. It helps to read a book like this. Just a textbook. It feels like he’s in high school again. He tried really hard, back then. Tried really hard to keep his grades up. Had to keep his grades up so he’d make his way into West Point. Had to keep them up. In he end, it didn’t matter. He sighs, looks at the clock. It’s earlier than he thought. He creeps back down the hallway, peeks in on Mickey, still holding the pillow, sleeping on his stomach. 

Ian thinks about walking in, waking him up slowly, doing whatever Mickey wants. He looks at the clock again. Nah. He’d be mad at him. He heads for the shower instead, pulling his boxers off, hardly waiting for the water to run hot before he climbs in. 

* 

There’s nobody today, no buddy, no body. Ava comes up to give him an assignment, but Ian is already on a ladder he found in the garage, cleaning the windows way up high, the ones they usually pay to have cleaned. Today Ian is going to do it. He’s doing it, already. It’s kind of fun. 

“Hey!” Ian says, looking down at Ava. He feels like he can look into Ava’s open mouth. 

“Holy shit,” Ava says, hands reaching out slowly to hold the ladder. “Holy shit, Ian. Please come down. Please. It’s too high. Don’t want you to get hurt.” 

Ian laughs and the ladder makes a sound. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Trust me. The other guys do this, right? I can. It’s gonna save you money. I’m doing just as good at they are.” 

“Ian,” Ava says. “Ian, please.” 

Ian thinks he can almost smell Mickey coming. He looks down, and Mickey is standing on the inside of the ladder, looking up. “Ian, shit,” he says. “You can’t be up that high. You took the med that makes you dizzy, remember?” 

Mickey is wearing that dark grey shirt. The shirt Ian loves. How didn’t he notice it before? “I missed it I guess,” Ian says. “Forgot to take it. I’ll take it after this.” 

Mickey’s voice drops. “Ian. Get down.” 

He can’t believe this. What the fuck did Mickey say? Why the fuck is he talking to him like that? Why is he talking to him like–

“Oh fuck,” Ian says, quietly. It’s almost like, it’s almost like–

No. Fuck that. Why the fuck do people think he can’t do shit? Can’t just do shit like this without it meaning something? Why does the doctor ask questions like this? If he’s done things like this? Thought things like this? Risky things, fast things. Why does she ask how he’s been talking. Why did Mickey say, “Ian, I have to go to sleep, you can tell me more in the morning, okay?” 

Why did he say that? Why didn’t he listen? Why wouldn’t he listen to what Ian read in the history book? He was trying to help. 

His eyes are wide. He feels them, now. 

Fuck. 

He wants to rattle the ladder, show them he can stay still. He looks down. Down at Mickey. He sees a look on his face that he knows. That he has seen, before. He closes his eyes and hears Mickey’s voice, so soft. Ian he says. He’s scared. Ian can hear it. Ian. Please get down. Please.

Ian pulls his eyes away from Mickey’s. He looks at the ladder. He looks at the top of the ladder, the words written there, all capitals in red. THIS IS NOT A STEP. 

Ian closes his eyes. It’s harder to balance when his eyes are closed. He can’t tell if he’s swaying. A strange lifting, up and up. 

Both Ava and Mickey make a little sound, intake of breath. Ava’s voice a scared little Oh. He sighs. “You know what? Fine.” Ian says “Fine. Fine,” he says. Eyes open. Climbing slowly down, each step a little more difficult. He’s not sure how he got up there so easily if it’s this hard to come down.

Ian’s foot hits the ground and Mickey is holding him, holding him tight, face pressed into his neck. He can feel a small wetness as Mickey holds him tighter. Ian looks at Ava, sees her hand on her mouth, eyes wide. Does she know? Know about him? He doesn’t know. She might. Did Mickey tell her? Who did Mickey tell? If he told her, who else did he tell? Ian pushes Mickey off him. Mickey gives a little noise until Ian looks at him. There are tears in Mickey’s eyes, but Ian doesn’t want to see them. He looks away. Looks away until he feels his own vision start to blur. 

“Ian, I have to get your medicine,” Mickey says evenly. “How much did you skip?” 

How much did he _skip?_ “I didn’t fucking skip,” Ian spits out. “I just skipped this _one._ I know what I’m doing. I’ve been taking this shit long before you got here.”

Mickey steps forward, crowding Ian’s space. “I know,” he says, louder. “I know. But something doesn’t seem right. I wanna help you.” 

Ian backs up. “Everyone wants to fucking help. No one listens to me. I don’t want help. I can handle it. I know how to.” 

Mickey’s face falls. Ian can see it. Another person he’s let down. Another person who thinks he knows him. Fuck that. Fuck this. 

Ian opens the front door, tries not to slam it. He sits on the steps, head in hands. His mind blurs, imagining himself going home, tearing his clothes out of drawers, slamming them shut. He imagines ripping his clothes off hangers. Smashing that red bowl the keys go in. Making a pile of sandwiches. What kind? Turkey? What did they have at home? Peanut butter and jelly. That’s what he’d pick. He imagines taking the train until he gets somewhere. Or wait, no. Imagines stealing a townie, driving to...he doesn’t know where. He imagines leaving Mickey, not letting him follow him, imagines Mickey…

Fuck. 

He hears the door open. Please don’t be fucking Jay or some bullshit. 

Mickey sits down next to him. He lights a cigarette, offers it to Ian after one drag. Ian doesn’t taste raisins or campfires. He just tastes cigarettes. Just like they are supposed to taste. He breathes out, tries to steady his breath. Tries to swallow the growing lump in his throat. 

Mickey hands him a pill, a bottle of water. Ian hesitates just before the pill enters his mouth, tries to steady himself so he can swallow it. He breathes out, eyes getting wet. 

Mickey’s hand reaches slowly for his, and Ian takes it. “I’m sorry, Mick,” he says to his lap. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” 

Mickey squeezes his hand. “I know you are.” He starts to say something more, but stops. Starts, then stops. 

Ian raises his head, finds Mickey’s eyes through the wetness in his eyes, lets his tears shake out. Blue on green. Green on blue. _Trust me._

“Mick, I have to go to the doctor.” His voice breaks as Mickey reaches to hold him tighter, whispering soft words into his ear. 

*

It’s just a little adjustment, just another 50 milligrams added to the bump in the middle of the day, after lunch. Just a little thing. But the feeling of failure is so deep he doesn’t want to get out of bed. He’s not depressed. It’s not like that. He’s just tired, embarrassed, just trying to make sense of what happened, and why. He pulls himself out, explaining to Mickey that depression isn’t always like this. It’s not usually like that for him, not all the time. It’s been awhile since he just lay in bed, hardly moving. It’s usually hatred, hatred that races, that races to tell him everything he’ll never be. It races, tells him _You fuck everything up. Always do. Motherfucking asshole. You stupid mistake, you sick little broken and busted up freak._ His arms itch. 

He sighs. He finishes pouring the water in the coffee pot, presses the little button. Outside the window there is snow and snow and snow. Spring seems far away.

“Hey,” Mickey says, softly, lips meeting his shoulder. “How’re you doing?” 

“Okay,” Ian says, filling his glass of water so he can take his morning meds. “Just thinking. Hope this adjustment stops sucking.” 

Mickey’s arms wrap around him. “It will.” 

Ian hums as he breathes out. “Thanks,” he says. “Hard to remember that.” He touches Mickey’s arm as it wraps around him tight. 

Mickey’s arm squeezes just a little tighter. “Gotta get going. You gonna be okay?” 

Mickey releases, and Ian turns. “I’ll be okay. Just going to take a run and go check in with the doctor later.” 

“What time? I can probably get out and come with you if you want.” 

Ian waves it off. “I’ll be fine, just another check to see if it’s all still okay. Might pop me up a little but that’s fine.” 

Mickey reaches for his face, gives him a quick kiss. “You’re kicking fucking ass. Proud of you.”

Ian kicks his foot., smiling. “Get out,” he says. “Don’t be late.”

*

Four weeks ago, this thing, this thing would have bothered him. But now he is not like that. Now he needs Mickey like this. He remembers being in the doctor’s office, then. He remembers Mickey in the waiting room sitting by the door as Ian paced, glaring at him. Mickey holding onto his eyes so he wouldn’t bolt. Ian alternating between loving him and hating him. Brain racing until the door opened and his name was called. 

Ian, she said. Ian, do you recognize that you are manic? Can you see that you are manic. 

Yeah, whatever. Yes, I guess. He huffed a minute, then stilled. Yeah, I am. ‘S getting worse, too. Can feel it. 

The doctor nodded. A plan. It didn’t mean he failed. It didn’t. Adjustments happen. How was he feeling now? RIght now? Ian’s legs bounced. He stood up. Shook his head, glared at the doctor. 

How do I feel? I feel like I want to get my meds and get the fuck out of here. I fucked things up with Mickey and I have to fix it. He’s gonna leave me over this shit.

Is he with you today? Yeah, he is. In the waiting room. Do you think he can come in and talk with us? Yeah, sure. I don’t fucking care. 

The doctor swiveled toward the door in her chair. She opened it, quietly called down to reception. Kim, can you call Mickey in?

Then there’s Mickey in the office, awkwardly sitting down in a chair, wiping his hands on his pants. 

I’m Doctor Turi, the doctor said, and shook his hand. Mickey nodded, said his name, and Ian thinks it’s strange he says it and strange the doctor asks because obviously they’ve talked about each other and obviously know they exist because apparently everyone knows he ends up in this office and now Ava probably knows and Ian’s mentioned Ava so she might as well fucking come in here too, Jesus Fucking Christ. 

Mickey, I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s alright with you, the doctor said. Mickey nodded, and Ian’s stomach dropped. He tried to hold his mind still, will it to be still. Tell himself Ian. Ian sit the fuck down. Ian. You look fucking crazy. Sit the fuck down. Ian sat down. 

The doctor asked questions. Has Ian done anything like this, talked fast like this, notice anything with his speech patterns? Sleep? Any change in sexual behavior? 

Ian’s hands twisted in his lap. He clenched his teeth. He wanted to fall into the floor. He wanted to run. Run and run and run. 

I don’t know, Mickey said. A little different, I guess. Just, like, the way he talked, and getting up early. I don’t think any of the other stuff. Nothing about, you know, sex or whatever. Ian saw Mickey glance his way, embarrassed. 

The doctor’s face found Ian’s. When you begin to be symptomatic, Ian, it is helpful for your partner to be aware of behaviors that may indicate an episode could possibly be near. I ask about certain symptoms because they have been present in past episodes. 

Ian can’t hold it back any longer. His jaw releases. It flies out of his mouth so fast he can’t catch it. 

Don’t fucking talk about my sexual behavior! He shouted it. Mickey’s hand found Ian’s knee. Just drop it! It has nothing to do with this, so don’t fucking say that again. I mean it. For real. Don’t you ever say that again. Don’t say it to me and don’t say it to him. Just don’t fucking say it at all. Okay? Stop. You don’t get to do that. It’s not your fucking business what we do. None of your business. Stop.

The doctor nodded, slowly. Ian hates when people look at him like that. He felt like he wanted to run. He wanted to leave. Wanted to run. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He can't. He looks at Mickey. He wants to keep him. He does. 

Let’s just work on getting you down now, the doctor said. She said a medicine Ian doesn’t remember. Something from Before. 

Is that the green one? The doctor nodded. Yeah, said Ian. No, I flushed those. 

The doctor says she can give him some samples. It’s to bring you down. I don’t know if you’ll need it after this point. We’ll see. 

We’ll see. That’s how it starts. The shuffle. The dread.

Be right back, the doctor said. I’ll go get the samples.

Ian, Mickey whispered. Ian, it’s okay. 

Ian shook his head. It’s not okay. I’m not okay. You should go. 

Mickey was quiet, waited until Ian met his eyes. Blue on green. No. I’m not going to fucking go. You can’t tell me I should go. Don’t you ever fucking say that again because of this. You hear me?

Ian shrugged. Didn't say anything. Anything would have been mean. He could tell. Knew he didn't want that.

The doctor came back with some little boxed packages. Okay, so two of those, twice a day, and the new dose in the afternoon. Come see me in two days. She looked at Mickey. Bring him in if he gets worse. After hours, you bring him to the hospital, okay? 

Ian rolled his eyes. I’ll be fine. And he will. He knows he will. 

*

He is. 

He was okay at the one week mark. Okay at the two week mark. He was okay at the three week mark, now a month. He makes his next appointment at the desk, swiping a butterscotch from the little glass tray on the counter. Kim laughs. “Dr Turi said a month?” Ian nods. “That’s great,” she says. She gives him options. Ian picks a day. 

He takes a deep breath as the door closes. He sees Mickey’s waiting on the steps by the parking lot, smoking. His eyes brighten as Ian walks closer. “How'd it go?” 

Ian grins. "Hey," he says. "What are you doing here? You came?" 

"Got out early. Missed ya." Mickey smiles. It go okay?" 

Ian nods, reaches for Mickey’s hand. Mickey’s always a little shy, but he takes it. “How was work?” 

Mickey hands him the cigarette. Ian takes it, small drag, passes it back. “Weird as usual. Busy, but not too bad.”

Ian holds his hand a little tighter. “Ava ask about me?” 

Mickey nods. “Just like every day. Think she’s still scared. I said it’d get better, you’re better. Said you’re still adjusting to being back, it’s nothing personal.” 

“Thanks,” Ian says, quietly. “Thanks, that’s good.” He thinks about those first days back, the way he kept his eyes down around her. He had apologized, told her what it meant, to her why. She understood. Just worried. He started easing back with half days, twice a week. Full days, twice a week, then coming in when he was needed beyond that. He had told Ava she could fire him, that he’d be okay, that he’d understand. But she hugged him. Hugged him and said, _“Of course not, peach. Shut up.”_

“So what now,” Mickey says. “We need food or what.” 

“Got some stuff while you were at work,” Ian says. “Chicken and stuff.” They drop hands as they reach the el, running up the steps as they hear the screech of a train stopping. They slide in. 

“With like rice or pasta or what,” Mickey says. “With the chicken.” 

Ian laughs. “I don’t know. We’ll see.” 

Mickey glares at him. “What. What are fucking trying to say to me right now?” 

Ian smiles, shrugs. “It’s just nice,” he says. “Just nice to talk like this. Feels so normal. I just– I missed it.”

Mickey’s smile climbs up. “I did too.” His eyes flit around Ian’s face. Ian wishes he could kiss him, but Mickey’s still shy when it comes to that. His voice gets low. “I’m glad you’re doing better,” he says. “I know I say that all the time, but–” 

Ian nods. “I’m glad you do. I know it’s scary.” 

Ian can see Mickey look at his hand where it grips the pole. Mickey’s hand comes up, rests just below his. His thumb shyly brushes against the back of Ian’s hand. “Hey,” he says. “Been meaning to ask ya.” He looks at his feet. He doesn’t say anything else. 

“Ask me what?” Ian touches the bottom of Mickey’s fist with his pinkie finger, pulls it back again. 

Mickey’s eyes come up. Blue. His voice is soft and low. “That one night, when I said I loved you.” 

“Yeah?” 

Mickey clears his throat. Swallows. “When you said it back…” 

Ian’s face falls, stomach drops. “Oh god, Mick. Of course I meant it.” His fingers cover Mickey’s. He can’t help it. “It wasn’t being sick. It wasn’t. I wasn't sick when I said that." Mickey's fingers twitch under Ian's, but they don't release. "Mickey," he says. "Mickey, this thing is a mood disorder. My moods get fucked up bad without medicine. That's what gets hard, but it doesn't mean I disappear. I know that seems confusing, but it's true. The hypomania hadn’t really started. Not exactly. And even if it had, it didn't change how I felt. How I _feel_ about you. About us. I meant it. I love you. I do. So fucking much. I meant it then and I mean it now, and it didn't go away in between. Not at all.”

Mickey finds Ian’s eyes. Blue on green. Lets out a breath. Nods. “Thanks,” he says. “I just needed to hear that.” 

The train screeches to a stop and they both look out the window. One more stop to go. They turn back to each other, eyes meeting again. 

“And,” Mickey says, he squirms like he does when he’s shy. “And then when I said I wanted you to, you know, do that to me…” 

“Do that _for_ you,” Ian says, softly. “I loved doing that for you, for us. I loved it, Mick.” 

Mickey shifts, blushing. “Okay, whatever,” he says, looking around. “Was that the kind of, like is that the sort of thing that is gonna be a sign of something? Should we just not–” 

Ian shakes his head hard. “No way. No. It’s not like that. I want everything with you. Whatever we both want is what I want. This isn’t about that. This is about us. It’s about _us._ Do you understand that? Please say you do, Mickey. Please.” 

Mickey nods. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s what I want, too.” 

The train stops, and they slip out. It’s two blocks this way and two blocks that way. The sky is fading, blue to black. Mickey stops, pulls at Ian’s sleeve. 

"Mick, what–” 

“Shut up. Talk too fucking much.” 

Ian’s mouth closes. His legs shake. Adrenaline legs. 

Mickey pulls him closer by the coat. All the stories Mickey has told him. All the stories of him going after people, pulling them by the shirt. Crowding them, punching them. But this is not like that. 

“I want you,” he says. “And not just in a sex way, and not just in a “I love you’ way. More than that. I mean I want you like this. All of this shit. I fuckin want it. I don’t give a shit. It’s part of you and I fuckin want it. That okay with you?” 

Ian nods. His eyes are wide, but not like that. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, that’s okay.” 

“Good.” Mickey grunts, like he’s tired about choosing between rice and pasta. “Fine. Good. Kiss me so we can get home and eat. Just cook it. I’m too tired.” 

Ian grins, puts his hand on Mickey’s face, reaches up to smooth his creased forehead. He slowly moves forward, so slow he waits to feel Mickey’s breath hitch. Another time, another day, Mickey might pull away, shoving him, a _Jesus Christ, make up your mind._ But now he stands there, hands finding Ian’s hips, eyes closed. Ian presses against his mouth slowly, carefully. Mickey pulls him closer, deepens the kiss. Pulls at Ian harder. 

“Ah, fuck,” Mickey says. “Just stop already. We can’t start this here. We can’t even start, you know that.” 

Ian laughs. “It’s like you in that grey shirt at work. “Have to basically run away from you all day.” 

“Til we get home and you fucking yank it open the second I get in the door. Good thing I know how to sew on a button.” Mickey kicks at his leg as they walk. “Fine, it’s like you and the green one,” 

Ian kicks him back. “Which green one?” 

Mickey stops, barks at him. “You know which fucking green one I mean! Don’t pretend you don’t.” 

Ian grins, clucks his tongue until he is shoved forward, Mickey’s strong hand against his back, his shoulder blades. Ian pushes back until he’s pushed forward again. They laugh, head over the two more blocks toward home, toward whatever is there, waiting. Calm. Quiet. Theirs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this fic has difficult themes in other areas, it's really important for me (a person with bipolar disorder) to express some of the emotions and feelings and trial and error when it comes to treatment. Ian was able to stabilize and return to health without much of an incident. I wanted to show how you can catch yourself, sometimes. Throughout this fic, I try to toss as much info as possible to describe how hard we work. Minor setbacks can and do happen. We can pull out and continue to manage our illness. In general, the bipolar portions of the fic are my way of trying to communicate that in a way that is both accurate and compassionate. 
> 
> Regarding the office scene. Some of it was a mirror of me last fall. I chose to leave out punctuation and keep it racing a little, because it can feel like that. Thoughts aren't clear. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to everyone who read this and supported me! It was my first AU and I was nervous, but loved writing this for you. Thank you. <3

Mickey’s skin is still damp when Ian returns with the glass of water. "Here," he says. "Drink up. You need it after all that huffing and puffing." 

He sits, drags his hand over Mickey's shaky leg, chuckling as Mickey's middle finger rises from the bed, followed quickly by the rest of his body. Mickey’s breathing is still a little unsteady. He makes a little sound, a little smile as he brings the glass to his lips, still red from where he bit them. 

“Still mad I woke you up?” Mickey smirks after downing most of the water in one gulp. He sets on the bedside table before flopping on his back. 

Ian lies down on his side. “No,” he says, smiling. He leans over him, fingers meeting his hairline. Ian feels a strange surge of pride when he feels how sweaty Mickey still is. “No,” he says again. “That was definitely worth it.” His thumb slides softly down Mickey’s temple, his cheek, his chin, his lips. Ian smiles, sighs loudly. 

The sun is starting to press harder into their room. Ian’s phone is somewhere on the table with the keys. “What time is it? How much longer do you have?” 

Mickey checks his phone. “Not enough time to go again if that’s what you mean,” he says. tapping Ian on the leg. 

Ian’s head drops to Mickey’s chest. “Not what I mean.”

“I gotta get up,” Mickey says. “Take a shower. You gonna take one?” 

“Later. When we get back, ” Ian says. He pauses. “Did you like it?” 

“Did I like what?” 

Ian grins. “Your good-luck fuck.” 

Mickey’s eyes grow wide. “Are you fucking serious?” He stares at Ian, but Ian’s already laughing. Already grabbing at him, rolling over on top of him. 

“Admit it,” he says. “You liked it. You liked your goo-”

“Fine,” Mickey groans, covering his eyes with his forearm.. “Yes. I liked it.” Ian sees him start to smile. “When did you think that up?” 

Ian kisses him, just once, just a little. “Pretty much when you shook me awake and I realized what day it is.” 

"When I shook you awake? The fuck is-" Mickey’s arm drops. He sighs hard. “Lemme out,” he says. “Gotta get in the shower.” 

“What are you gonna wear?” 

Mickey shrugs beneath him. “Don't give a shit. Pick something out for me.” 

Ian nods, a small smile creeping. He knows what he’ll choose. Mickey raises his mouth to kiss him fast before he pushes Ian off. By the time they are standing, Mickey has figured it out.

“Okay,” Mickey says, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. Could you at least iron it?”

"Course I will." 

“Fuckin’ right you will.” 

Ian slaps Mickey on the ass as he walks toward the bathroom, laughs when Mickey swats back at him. “Hey, do I need to dress up?”

“No,” Mickey says from the bathroom. “Just whatever.” 

Ian gets dressed quickly before he goes to the closet, pulls out Mickey’s grey shirt, his favorite tie, a smile as he walks to the kitchen.

There was a time when Ian wouldn’t have been able to do this. Get close to an iron like this, a button pushing the heat up in one wet plume. The hot metal, a thick boat smoothing out beneath his hand, wrinkles erasing with the warmth. Sometimes it reminded him of the matches, or that one time with the hot cast iron pan handle, but that one wasn’t so bad.

But now it’s just a shirt. Just Mickey’s shirt. Just Mickey’s shirt in the kitchen they share, this apartment they share, this life. The smell of Mickey still on his skin, the feel of Mickey still under his hands, smooth and warm. 

Mickey’s taking a longer shower than usual, and he already usually showers a long time. Ian’s about to tell him to get out when he hears the water shut off. 

“Want eggs?” Ian calls. “Know you don’t want to, but you gotta eat, Mick. Eggs?”

“Sure,” Mickey calls back. “I guess.” 

He comes out a few minutes later, boxers on, hair combed back, carrying his dress pants, suit jacket. He mumbles “I don’t want all these,” to the plate, but picks up his fork anyway. They eat silently. Mickey ends up eating all the eggs, after all. Ian catches him looking at the time over and over. 

“Have the car, remember?” Ian gestures with his head out the window. “We’ll be fine. Have loads of time.” 

Mickey nods. He rubs his fingers over the tattoos. 

“Dry enough?” Ian asks, clearing their plates. 

Mickey nods and reaches into Ian’s backpack. He pulls out the little container of the buddy makeup and a small compact of powder. He takes his time, doesn’t rush. There is a slowness Ian can see when Mickey does this. A careful touch he imagines he must give behind the blue glass door. He likes to watch Mickey do this, the softness, the slowness of each fingertip against his skin. Careful. Calm. Mickey presses them with the thick makeup, then powders them just so, a gentle, slow breath against each one as the lines disappear.

The letters on Mickey’s fingers are written in long lines. So delicately, actually, for such an unequivocal threat. Hard and soft. The combination is like Mickey. Mickey’s hands are strong. His fingers are harsh when they grab at Ian without warning, so rough and perfect that his breath stutters. Mickey’s fist grabbing him by the shirt in the kitchen, yanking at him hard, fist tightening, nails scratching, growling _fuck me._ Firm hands slamming Ian against the counter, glasses tapping together somewhere in the cupboards as Ian groans into him. 

Hard hands. Hard threat. Fuck U Up. One night in bed Ian traced every letter with his finger, sliding down to squeeze lightly at each of Mickey’s fingernails. His fingers were still, soft, relaxed. Ian asked “When?” and Mickey said “When I was too young.” Mickey said he would get them removed someday. “As soon as I save up enough,” he says. “Don’t want this shit on me forever.” 

Ian, on one level, a really big level, understands. He understands the desire to cover up, start again, like Mickey is doing now. Now, today, and other days like it, he wants to cover for someone else. People who need to see him a certain light. Mickey likes that. Likes being that person they see. A person they can trust with their family. Not someone to be afraid of. Just a man like anyone, leaning in, speaking low, kind. Violent past erased, if only for a day, pressed firmly away from him. 

Ian sees him as he is. That mix of hard and soft. Hard and soft, which is what makes him so beautiful, so vulnerable. Ian knows that. Knows vulnerable. Knows fear. Ian knows about the old cracked marble in Mickey’s pocket, the one that will try and cut him if he puts his hand in, forgets. Those are the days Mickey finds Ian at the home, the days he needs to pull him outside, eyes wide, panic in his voice. _“He’s dead, right?”_ and Ian says _“He is.”_ and Mickey says, _“You’re sure, right? Ava said, right?”_ Those are the nights Mickey wakes up, gasping, and Ian shoots up with him. Waiting. Waiting to answer, waiting to say _He is. He’s gone._ Sometimes Ian can hold him. Sometimes Mickey doesn’t want that. Later, after it’s over, some other day, Mickey will shrug it off like it was nothing, just some sort of weird whatever. 

Those are the times Ian knows why Mickey wants the letters gone. Those are the worst times. 

But there are other times, in bed, after they move and move. Times when they laugh breathily, wordless, and Mickey will raise his fist so Ian can see it. F U C K and they laugh harder, fingers reaching, holding themselves together in the glow. Fuck. You. Up.

Ian feels selfish, even guilty when he wants them right where they are, just as they are. Just as they were, this morning. 

 -

Hard and Soft. Strong and delicate. His fingers were those things, and more, this morning. Delicate lines touching him everywhere. Soft fingers sliding slowly into his, squeezing hard as Ian’s mouth went slack. Delicate lines disappearing into Ian’s hair, Mickey’s breath against his neck, his mouth, whispering _fuck, fuck._ Mickey's strong hands, strong fingers. Fingers that gripped Ian's back, voice rising. Ian whispering "Tell me.” A bite to Mickey’s neck as he whined.

Mickey shook, whispered "Oh god, Ian." Moaned “Oh _fuck,_ Ian.” Ian’s mouth on his, a hard kiss before he broke away, Broke away as Mickey pushed up, trying to catch his mouth. “Oh fuck. Fuck _fuuuck._ " Mickey whined harder.

“Mickey,” Ian said, hand hard on Mickey’s hip, making him gasp. “Want you to talk to me.” Mickey’s jaw dropped with the words. He threw his head back further on the pillow, shaking. 

Mickey swore as his eyes rolled back, a strange sound in his throat. “You. You–” He was trying to speak. Kept losing his breath. Mickey’s hands, those lines on his fingers, gripped harder and harder around him. Mickey’s mouth. “Feels so good. So fuckin hard. So good.” He whispered it, opened his eyes, hooded and beautiful. 

"What," Ian said, trying to keep his voice steady. Stern. But he could feel the softness in his voice, too. "What feels good?"

Mickey moaned. “You do. Oh fuck. You feel good.” Mickey’s nails slid sharp against his back. Ian hissed as they fell. Mickey did his best to thrust back against him. Mickey’s voice, his wet breath. His words began to pound their way into Ian’s ears. Mickey’s voice as his head snapped back. "Love how you touch me, how you fuck me.” He let out a strangled sound, a high sound, his own words pushing him higher. 

That’s what Ian wanted to hear, what they both wanted to hear, say, feel. Ian groaned. Mickey began to push back harder. Ian shook and shook. His turn to speak and he could hardly move his lips. “Fuck,” Ian said. “You feel so good, Mick. Always feel so fucking good for me." Mickey shuddered, delicate, vulnerable, sweet. Ian sighed, then let out a loud cry as Mickey’s hand slid into his hair again, pulling hard.

"More,” Mickey growled. “More.” 

Ian groaned. "Taste so fucking good, Mick. Love to suck you off. Feel you come." Ian's breath pushed out of him fast. He snapped his hips harder, punching every word out with his hips. “You like that, right? Like to come in my mouth?” 

Ian's mind spun when Mickey’s strong fingers gripped his hair even tighter. He hissed again. “Fuck yes I do.” Mickey growled.

Ian slid his hand down Mickey’s thigh, pulled him closer, changed the angle. “I know you do,” he breathed, and pressed deep into Mickey, that place. There. Fuck. 

Mickey dragged Ian’s head down to his. His mouth crashed into Ian’s, messy, inelegant, perfect. They broke apart, panted into each others’ mouths. “I’m close,” he whispered, so soft, so sweet.

Ian’s shoulders dropped, relief in his sigh. “Me too,” he whispered back, bodies pressing closer as Mickey's voice clattered against the walls. “Yeah,” he pants. “Go ahead. I’m gonna–”

Then there it was. The glide up. The lines on Mickey’s fingers shaking hard against Ian’s back, his shoulders. Up and up. Ian's hips snapping, head back and groaning. Mickey's fingers promising _up._ Pushing them up as their voices rose. Mickey’s voice, Ian's voice. Up and up until they began to float, release and fall. 

Fuck. You. Up. 

Mickey’s fingers found Ian's face, sliding down. "Jesus Christ that was good.” A little nudge, little laugh. "Dirty talkin' piece of shit." 

Ian laughed. “Sorry, I gotta watch that.” 

“Nah,” Mickey said, a smirk when Ian turned to look at him. “Nah, we’re keeping that one.” A kiss. A laugh. Their arms. Sunlight. 

- 

Ian shakes the thoughts from his mind. He takes a deep breath, slips on his coat, pats the pocket for gloves. His eyes are full of Mickey.

“What.” Mickey says, buttoning his cuffs. “What is it?” 

Mickey's grouchy because he's anxious. Ian knows that, but he can’t help teasing. He smiles wider. Shrugs. "Nothing,"

Mickey rolls his eyes, takes his suit jacket from Ian's hands. "Jesus Christ. We had sex like an hour and a half ago." He slips the jacket on, but as his head rises, he laughs and claps his covered fingers against Ian's face. His tongue peeks out of his grin."That shit was hot as fuck, but I'm a little busy now. Pay attention."

“Just trying to help you relax, Mick," Ian says, voice deeper, softer, more serious. "Look, you're gonna do great. Its the last thing. The other test went well. You're as good as done. You got this." 

Mickey's tongue is pressing into the inside of his cheek. He shifts from foot to foot. "Okay," Mickey says. "Okay, fine. Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do it here. By the time we get there I’ll be too nervous. Some asshole says something and I'll fuckin snap. Come here.” 

Mickey steps forward, and Ian feels his mouth smiling against his, just at first. Soon Mickey's mouth opens wider as he pulls Ian closer. Ian’s hand slides down the back of Mickey’s jacket as they hum together. Mickey grabs Ian's hips hard, groaning into him. 

"Ian," Mickey says, squirming a little as Ian’s mouth presses carefully against his cheek, moving down down his jaw slowly. "Ah, c'mon. okay. Okay. That’s enough, get off. Gotta be on time.”

Ian pulls away, one heavy breath before smiling again. "Good luck," he whispers. “You’re gonna do great.” He stands back, smoothes the shoulders of Mickey’s suit jacket. Adjusts the tie. Smoothes out an imaginary wrinkle on his chest, just to touch him again. 

“Enough of this shit,” Mickey says, picking up all the keys, tossing them at Ian. “I need to go.”

*

It’s supposed to be a hallway, but it feels like one wide room, a room like one of the upstairs rooms at the home. Heavy lamps with matching shades. Leather couches and glass-front cabinets with books inside. There’s one with a variety of different urns, and one with small anatomy models. One has arms spread out, out like a statue at a church, out like his doctor asked him to do in the hospital. Books holding the models up, fencing around them here and there. Protecting them. 

He’s chosen to sit on a pale wooden bench to wait. It’s uncomfortable to sit on very long. He’s learned that, sitting here. An hour maybe? He left his phone at home. Didn’t even think about pulling it off the table as they left home. No book. No distractions. Locked cabinets, even. He checked. 

A woman walks down the hall, short heels falling heavy, like she’s just learning how to walk in them. It’s a different sound than the sound that comes from Vee, from Fiona. Less steady, but fuller, louder. She wears a jacket and wool skirt, deep purple blouse beneath it. She meets his eye, gives a quick nod. 

It’s hard to tell who’s a teacher or not, because they all have to dress like this, like that. Professional and serious. Practicing. Not everyone looks comfortable. Mickey does–did– walking into the room, not looking back, tilting his head back and and forth, stretching. 

Ian stands up, presses his chest out and pulls it back again. Takes a breath, turns around to see the model of lungs in the cabinet. He tries to remember how long he’s been sitting here. He wants to be there when Mickey comes out. He’ll know. If he misses that first moment, he won’t be able to tell. Mickey often moves from nervous to stone. Old life, old habits. Ian wanders the hall again. He realizes there’s another hallway at the end, the direction the lady in the purple blouse went. He turns the corner. 

On the wall he sees a simple, almost softly illustrated series of pictures. He moves slowly left to right, eyes wide, interested. Embalming directions. Nothing graphic. First thing to the last thing. The patient is dark beige, sexless, the incision and tubing line areas only pointed at with a red arrow. A picture of closed eyes, lips. There is a picture of the buddy being softly massaged to loosen up before it all starts. 

For a minute, Ian wishes Ava was there with the faint chair. It’s a lot. A lot to take in, even in simply drawn pictures. He realizes he has grown accustomed to buddies after the blue room, but seeing the diagrams brings him closer in. It feels more real. Sadder. 

He steps closer. He feels like he should be afraid. There’s something that happens to him as he reads each step. He pictures himself opening casket lids, beginning to arrange flowers. Say things like “This way, sir.” Driving grieving families to the church, forcing his mind to close at the sound of their sobs, the life lost, never coming back. 

This is different. If someone asked why, his mouth couldn’t move. So real. So real. His arms itch. He feels his body stepping back, breathing hard. Closes his eyes. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. He closes his eyes. 1 2 3 4. 1 2. Where’s Ava with that chair? He bounces this legs up and down. Breathes. He opens his eyes slowly, starts to back up, move away. 

Back up, move away, but then he’s back again. He smoothes his arms, pats his thigh. Breathes. 

Ian pictures himself in reverse, closing caskets, walking backward into the elevator, moving down the three flights of stairs. Elevator doors opening near the blue glass room. 

Then he pictures himself turning. Turning to face forward. Pictures himself stepping out, pictures himself opening the buddy room door. Slowly walking in. Seeing Mickey on the rolling chair he used when he looked at Mandy that terrible day. See him doing these things, any one of those things on the wall. In his mind’s eye he sees Ava, pointing out places and there, reminders before wheeling back to someone else. Sees Mickey stand up, mask down, writing things on a clipboard, chewing his lip. 

In his mind, Mickey’s turns. Mickey turns. Blue on green on blue. _Trust me._

Ian does. He does. With everything. His legs feel stronger. He rakes his eyes over the pictures again. He doesn’t know Mickey like this. They don’t talk about the process. Ian never saw a book for class. Once he asked Mickey if he had to study all the little stuff inside the body. Asked how he’d remember. Mickey raised his eyebrows, tapped his finger on the side of his head. Mickey doesn’t talk about it. Ian remembers that day, that first day. Rule Number Six. _“I take this shit real serious. I don’t like when people think I don’t.”_

There is a door that opens around the corner, shuffle of feet. Ian rushes around the corner, ready to see Mickey. 

It’s Will. Will will a big yellow envelope in his hand. He gives a short wave with the other. “Hey.” 

Ian clenches his teeth, forces them to release as he walks closer. Will sits on one of the couches, gestures for Ian to sit. Ian shakes his head, dismissive laugh. 

“C’mon,” Will says. “Want to talk for a sec.” 

“Talk from there,” Ian snaps. “What.” 

Will smiles. “Sound like him.” His smile fades. 

Ian shrugs. “You don’t know me.” 

Will’s eyes move to the floor. He plays with the manilla folder in his hands. “Forgot to bring this in,” he says. “Was supposed to a few days ago.” 

Ian’s voice is even. “What is it?”

Will looks up again. “His crematory hours. I do that kind of thing. Oversee the hours and turn ‘em in.” 

Ian nods. “I know,” he says. He knows about Mickey and the crematory hours. Half of the time he was in the waiting room talking with Laura. “I was there most of the time.” 

“He did a good job, you know.” Will clears his throat. “He catches onto things fast.” 

Ian turns his head sharply, spits his words. “So, you don’t think there was some conflict of interest? Some sort of sketchy teacher/student situation?” 

Will shrugs, exhales, shakes his head. “No, I don’t.” He stands, paces the hall.

“If you say so.” 

Will plays with the string on the envelope. “You know what? I _do_ say so.” 

Ian shakes his head. “Bullshit. You could have fucked things up for him with this.” 

Will sighs. “I know this isn’t what’s bothering you. What we had _really_ isn’t any of your business.” 

Ian raises his eyebrow. Scoffs. He isn’t afraid to invade his space. Northside pussy. “Not my business, huh?” Will steps back, and Ian follows. “Is that what you tell yourself? That what you tell yourself to feel better about the shit you pulled?” 

Will pushes a hand out, and Ian stops. “He fucking trusted you.” Ian can feel his tight face softening. “He trusted you. Do you have any fucking idea how much that means to someone? To people who–” he stops, swallows. Fuck. His eyes feel wet. He blinks hard, clears his throat. 

Will looks down. “I know,” he mumbles. “I know I fucked up. I really did.” 

“Yeah,” Ian says, turning his back so Will can’t see his eyes, pacing. “Yeah, you really did.” 

He can hear the big clock on the wall ticking. It’s comforting. Order. Calm. He can feel Will’s eyes boring into his back. “What,” he says. 

“I’m glad he has you,” Will says, softly. 

It feels like a cop-out, a nicety he says to distance himself, stop struggling on the hook Ian hangs him on. But Ian finds himself nodding, pushing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He doesn’t say anything. Can’t. Won’t. He turns, meets Will’s eyes again. He can see something there, something more he wants to say, but knows he shouldn’t. Ian nods. 

Will breathes in. “Well,” he says. “I’ll get this to the office.” He looks up at Ian again. Ian feels his face. Flat. Shut down. It’s an old feeling, an old state of being, of living. Flat disappointment, anger, fear. He doesn’t say anything more. He watches him walk around the corner, waits a minute. Another minute. His breath releases hard. 1 2. He doesn’t know how long he’s been holding his breath. He wipes his fingertips down his face, closes his eyes. He wishes he could touch Mickey. Hug him, whisper that he knows, he understands. Ian wants to promise him that he’ll never let him get hurt like that again. Not by him, not by anyone. Ever. 

Ian sits back down on the bench. He watches and watches and watches the door until Mickey comes out, finds Ian’s eyes. Blue on green and green on blue and when Mickey sits down, he takes Ian’s hand in his, and they breathe together like they know the answers to every question locked inside them. 

*

Doctor Turi has her giant coconut water on her desk and there are papers everywhere. Not much changes, here. But he’s changed. Again. Thank fuck. 

“How’s the new dose?” 

Ian nods. “It’s good, I guess. Shaky hands came back, but not too bad.” 

“Good,” she says. “Feel like everything else is on track? Any agitation?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Been stress, but it’s okay. Isn’t tipping me. Just doing the breathing stuff and going to bed early.” 

She squints. “What’s the stress?” 

Shit. “It’s–Mickey’s just finishing school and it’s stressful because then he can work more with what he wants to do and then I can work in a different area and this other guy can leave and it’s just kind of stressful for everybody but I think everything will be fine once he gets his grades back and that should be like a week from now so then I think we can all relax about it.” He takes a breath. Stops. Shit. 

She looks at him, leans back in her chair. Waits. 

Ian shakes his head again. “Look,” he said. “That wasn’t–I know what it sounded like. That’s not what’s happening.” 

“Careful,” she says. 

“I know,” Ian says. Takes a breath, lets it out slowly. “I know.” 

“Do you want to come in two weeks from now? Check in?” 

“Um,” Ian says. “I don’t think I really need to. Do you want me to?” 

Doctor Turi swivels in her chair. “I can give you a month. That’s it.”

Ian nods. “Let’s do that?” 

She waits, looks at him again. Waits. Ian wills his body to stay still, eyes soft. This is always the hardest part. Making sure he doesn’t come off as sick. “Okay,” she says, clicking things on the computer. “Okay. You have to promise to come in if something changes. You don’t, you get worse. Watch your med times, Ian.” 

He nods hard. “Okay,” he says. “You got it. Thanks.” 

Doctor Turi breathes in and out. “Things okay with Mickey? Minus the school stress?” 

Ian can feel the slightest blush. “Yeah. He’s great. We’re great.” He takes a little pause. “He just, he just makes me feel really happy.” 

She smiles. “I’m glad.” 

Ian looks at his feet. “Know what’s weird?” 

“No,” she says. “What’s weird?” 

“That I wouldn’t even know him otherwise,” Ian says, slowly. He looks up, tries to tell her with his eyes what he means, but she already knows. “None of this would have happened.” 

She nods. “It’s strange how our lives can change direction, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Ian says, very quietly. “Yeah, it is. It’s good, though. Didn’t think it would be.” 

“Look up,” she says, so Ian does. “You’ve come so far. You have such a great perspective when it comes to your recovery so far. You’ve become a great advocate for yourself, especially with your family.” Doctor Turi shoves some paper around. “I just want to remind you that having bipolar disorder doesn’t mean you will ruin a relationship, even if you get sick again. From what I saw, Mickey appears very supportive.” 

Ian swallows. “He is. He said he–like, he said he wanted me no matter what. Even with this.” 

She gestures toward him. “Do you believe him?” 

Ian hesitates. “I think so. Most of the time I do.” 

“You’re capable of this,” she says. “Letting go. Letting someone love you deeply. I’ve only known you two years, and even I can see that.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes I don’t think about it all. I can talk to him about it, even. I’m so happy with him. I like the life I have.” He swallows. “I just worry about throwing it away when I get sick again. I’m always going to get sick again. I–”

“Ian,” she interrupts, softly. “Ian. This isn’t about being a ticking time bomb. Do you need to keep communication open? Of course. Do you have to break up because you don’t feel worthy of this life you’re building together? Of course not. Can you see the difference?” 

Suddenly Ian’s eyes burn. Is he getting teary? He is. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

Doctor Turi reaches for the box of tissues and moves it closer. “You’re right. If you had succeed in taking your life, none of this would have happened.” 

Ian presses the tissue into his eye, then brings it down to his lap. 1 2 3 4. 

“But aren’t you glad you were able to meet him?” 

1.2. Fuck. He nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, exhales. “Sometimes I can’t believe I’m still here.” He meets her eyes again. “Then it’s like I remember, and it gets so overwhelming I do this,” He holds up the balled up tissues, laughs through a little hitch in his throat. 

“So?” 

“What do you mean so?” 

She leans across the desk and bounces the tissues up and down again. Ian takes two. “I mean,” she says. “Life is overwhelming, sometimes. It just is. The difference is the point of view you had then, at your lowest, and now, stabilized. You fought for it. You didn’t ask to be pulled back from your attempt. You wanted it to be fatal.” 

Ian uses the tissues, balls them up with the others. Reaches again. Nods. 

“It wasn’t your choice to come back. But it was your choice to start trying. Keep trying. Stay here. Just live here.” She breathes out. “You’re a fighter. Will you have hard times? Yes, probably. But you know the steps you have to take from there to be well again. You have your structure in place and your health plan. You did that. You’re the one making plans not just to live, but to stay well. You want to stay well. That’s more than some people do. More than what you did those two years unmedicated. Yes?”

Ian nods. “Yes.” 

“Yes?” 

Ian laughs. “Yes.” 

Doctor Turi taps her palms on the table. “Good. Good.”

“Done with me?” 

“Pretty much,” she says. “I think I gave a pretty good speech.”

He laughs again. “It was a good one. Thanks.” 

“Anytime,” she says, reaching her hand out for his balled up tissues. “Anytime.” 

*

Shoveling feels good. Makes him feel strong, moves muscles in a different way. He’s learned, over the years, how to shovel without his back hurting like hell afterward. There’s the scrape of the shovel, bit by bit, as the cement sidewalk is revealed. 

To shovel right, you have to make sure the whole thing is cleared. Leaving any snow behind, even little patches, means it’ll get icy after the air warms up, just slightly, during the day. Turn to ice at night when it’s cold again. Get icy beneath new snow, waiting to trip you up. Scrape scrape. 

The scraping sound is harsh in his ears. He still has that same old coat, wrists exposed as he piles snow next to him. He raises his head. Maybe just a couple more feet. 

“Hey, how’s it goin’” There’s Fiona, sneakers, arms pressed into her sweater. “Thanks for comin’ by.” 

Ian breath is visible. His heart pounds. His eyes tear from the cold. He can feel the sweat under his hat. Hot and cold all at once. He feels so hot under his coat he wants to take it off, but his nose is colder than anything. This is the part he loves–and hates–about late winter. He pants, smiles. “Nice coat.” 

She laughs. “Just wanted to come out for a sec, asshole!” 

He goes back to shoveling the last couple feet, laughing. “Hey Fi, you’re welcome, by the way.” 

Fiona laughs harder, bounces to keep herself warm. “Thank you. Thank you for comin’.” 

Ian finishes, hands her the shovel. They bring it into the house so it won’t get stolen. Even shitty half-broken shovels get stolen. They kick their shoes off, step in the snow that comes off their pants, leaning the shovel against the wall. 

He sighs as he finally is able to unzip his coat. He groans at how good it feels. He rips his sweater off, too. Rubs at his face, clenches his fingers, his hands. So cold, so hot. He flops on the couch, neck back, breathing at the ceiling. 

Here comes Fiona with some coffee. “Thanks again,” she says. “Just couldn’t get it done, and not like Carl’s gonna do it right.” 

Ian takes the coffee. “Maybe I’ll teach Emma. She’s almost three. Time to start pulling her weight.,” he chuckles. “How’s Debs? Haven’t talked in a while.” 

Fiona shrugs. “Good I guess. Haven’t talked in a couple weeks. You talk to Lip?” 

Ian nods his head, raises the coffee cups to his mouth. “He checked in a week or so ago. Keep telling him I’m okay now, but I know he’s skeptical.” 

“Nah,” she says. “He’s always skeptical ‘bout something.” They laugh. “You are though, right? Feeling better?” 

Ian nods. “It was quick. Really quick. Caught it. Mickey went in with me and everything.” 

Fiona leans back further into the couch. Her eyes are so warm, so kind. He remembers when her eyes were nothing but angry, scared, frustrated, sad. They are soft, open, now. “I love seeing that look,” she says. 

“What look?” 

“That look in your eye.” 

Ian takes a drink, probably blushes. “He’s just,” he says. But he doesn’t say anything more. He sets his mug down on the table, turns to Fiona. “I just want him. All the time. Want to be with him forever.” 

He freezes at the last words. He surprises himself. Fiona’s mouth is open. “What?” 

He rubs at his forehead. “I’m just–I don’t really know what I’m even talking about. Just thinking about a lot of stuff. Do you know I’ve been working at the home almost a year? Next month it’ll be a year. Things are really changing there, too. I told you about that guy Matt leaving and stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Mickey get his grades back soon?” 

Ian nods. “Should be really soon. Couple days, maybe.” 

“He freakin’?

Ian laughs. “Kinda. I think he’ll be okay, though. He doesn’t believe me of course.” 

Fiona is quiet. “I’m really happy for you, Ian.” 

Ian turns his head. “Thanks Fi.” He feels those little tears again. Warm. 

Fiona’s arm snakes around his back, finds his shoulder, pulls him closer. Ian is taller, will always be taller, but like this, he’s small again. He finds himself curling into her, head beneath her chin, hand on her shoulder. He can hear her heart beating. He closes his eyes, smells her as he breathes in. There’s nothing as comforting as this, sometimes. The smell of his house when he’s been gone a while. The smell of Fiona, this close. Something like dandelions and honey, a little bit like grass when you lay down and it’s still dewy. It’s not perfume, it’s her. He remembers it, the smell of it when he was little and had the flu, how much it helped him feel better. Hugging him when he cried after Monica bled on the kitchen floor. He even remembers the smell of her when he was at the hospital. Barely alert, he remembers her. The smell of sun on sand, barely breaking through the sick, sterile mess around him. He breathes in, deeper. 

“I’m so glad,” she says. Ian can feel her warm tears in his hair. “I’m so glad you’re,” but she doesn’t say more. 

“Me too,” he whispers.

Fiona’s arm holds him tighter. “Don’t know what I would have done if you really–” Her chest heaves with barely-contained sobs, but Ian doesn’t let go.

“I know,” he says. “I know.” 

Fiona pushes him up, slowly. She puts her hands on his face, just like when he was young. Like when he was eight and fell off a rusty bike, came home with a giant scrape on his face. She put her hands on his face like this, squinting at him, trying to figure out how bad he was hurt. 

“I’m okay,” he says, softly. “It’s not your fault, remember? It’s just how things are. It got bad, I know. But it’s different now. I promise.” 

Fiona brings his head closer. “You promise,” she says. Almost angry. He knows her. This voice isn’t angry, it’s scared. “You promise?” 

Ian nods, his hands finding hers, bringing them off his face gently. “I promise,” he says. “Life’s better than it was.” He swallows again. “Still gonna be hard, but I’m not gonna get that bad. You saw my plans. We have a plan, remember? If things get bad?” Fiona nods. “So I’m sticking around, you know?” 

Fiona nods. She wipes at her eyes quickly, like she thinks Ian won’t see. She clears her throat, picks up their mugs. “To sticking around,” she says. 

“To sticking around,” he says, and clinks. 

*  
“I can’t stand this,” Ava says. “Are you just dying?” 

Ian laughs. “Poor choice of words, don’t you think?” 

“Probably just as bad as this being called a livery,” she scoffs, gesturing to the area where the Townies sit in the winter. “No, but seriously. Is he losing it? He looks like he’s losing it.” 

Ian shrugs, weighs his hands. “I don’t know. I mean, he keeps burning food and forgets to turn the TV off and stuff, but _overall…”_

Ava laughs. “Is it bad to laugh?” She sighs. “It’s hella stressful, though. Feel like we’re all on eggshells. Must be a lot of pressure on him.” 

Ian breathes out. “Oh yeah. Definately.” 

Ava tosses him another towel for wiping the inside of the next Townie. “So I’ve been thinking,” she begins. 

“Uh-oh,” Ian smirks. “This never ends well.” 

She tosses another towel at his face. “As I was saying, Mister Employee, I was thinking of telling you something else about this plan. Thought it would stress you out because of the, you know,” 

Ian pulls his head out of the car. “You can say it. Bipolar.” 

“Bipolar,” she repeats. “Okay, you ready?” 

Ian leans against the car. “Shoot.” 

She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so part of the plan has changed. We talked about it later. After that Thanksgiving thing. In January, Jay started saying that he thought we all needed to make some changes. The more we talked about it, the more I realized he was right. I think we could take this as a big opportunity. Make things work better. We were going to talk to you about it, maybe even away from Mickey, just to gauge your reaction. Then we decided we should talk to both of you since you’re together and everything.” She darts her eyes to the side. “But then you had the bipolar...thing…” 

“Episode,” he said. “Had a hypomanic episode. Got fixed.” 

She nods. “Yeah." She sighs. "I'm so happy you go well. That was the main thing. This- it was just not a good time to talk about it.” 

Ian pushes himself off the car. “Please,” he says. “Please, just tell me.” 

Ava gestures with her head. “Just come over,” she says. “Nothing going on inside. It's too cold. C'mon." 

They walk up the steps to Ava’s little house at the back of the funeral home. She shoves her foot in as she opens the door. “C’min C’min,” she says to Ian. He pushes his way though. There’s a black cat standing there, meowing. “That’s Dolores,” she says, kicking her shoes off. “I think she was sleeping the last time you were here. Do you want juice?” 

“Uh,” he says. “What kind of juice?” 

“Apple Cranberry or Cranberry Lemonade?” 

“Uh, Apple I guess?” 

“Nice,” she says. “You see all those owls over there? You didn’t get to see much last time because of…” she trails off. “You should go look at those owls.” 

Ian walks over to the line-up of owls. Different sizes, but all made out of porcelain. They sit on top of small wooden boxes. 

“You should look in there. It’s cool, I swear.” 

Ian laughs as she comes over with the juice. “Sometimes you are so fucking creepy.” 

She laughs. “Okay, open a box. You'll think it's weird. I wanna see your face."

Ian carefully opens a box. “What the fuck, Ava.” 

She gives him the juice glass, takes the box from his hand. She turns it over onto the shelf. There is a very small bit of a feather and tiny bones. Very tiny bones. “Owl pellets,” she says. “They swallow food whole, like other birds of prey, but can’t digest the bones and stuff. They don’t have a crop, like that little organ, to deal with it all, so to safely process food, they have to regurgitate it in these little capsules. I can tell you’re not listening, so the short answer to this stuff is _yes_ you are looking at owl barf that I dissected as a kid for fun.” She takes a drink of her juice. “What’s wrong.” 

Ian laughs. “Where do I even start?”

Ava rushes to her own defense, laughing. “It’s not like I found them on the street or anything! My dad would order them in the mail from North Carolina. I’d usually get a pack of 20 or something for Christmas and my birthday. They come all sterilized and stuff.” 

“Not better,” he says, drinking the juice. “Why was this fun? Like, why was this fun to do not just once, but forty times a year?” 

“Nay, peach. It was more like forty times a year for five years. For a while I had a small skull collection on my windowsill. It’s probably in one of these boxes if you want to find it.” 

He shakes his head. “Weren’t we going to talk about something?” 

“Ugh,” she says. “Yeah, we should. You can sit there if you want. I’m going to make a grilled cheese sandwich. You want one?” 

“Sure,” he says, sitting on the couch while she fumbles around in the kitchen. “What’s up.” 

“Okay,” she says, turning the burner on. “Okay, so the idea is that when Mickey passes then Matt will go, right? I mean, if Mickey doesn’t want to stay with us, Matt’ll leave anyway, but that would be me n’ Jay’s ideal plan.” She pulls the bread off the top of the refrigerator, throws it on the counter, throws the cheese slices on it. “So the other thing is that since Jay’s been dealing with all Matt’s slack for the, like, ever, he’s tired too. Like, totally burnt out. Obviously he’s not quitting or anything. But between doing like every single intake and arranging every single thing and coordinating every single thing for you, it’s pretty tiring.” 

“I’m sure,” he says, setting his glass down. “I can see it.” 

“So we started thinking,” she says, “We probably need a Jay Junior.” 

“A Jay–”

“Junior,” Ava says brightly, pressing on the sandwiches. “You know, someone to split all the work with. We worked it out, everything we’d need. Not another embalmer apprentice or anything. We have Jay if we need help with that. We just figured out all the other things to do. Like, share intakes and coordinate everything with everybody. Actually write up all his crazy papers and help keep things straight. Or, you know, straight- _ish_ ” 

Ian smiles. “Sounds like a good idea. He’s stretched pretty thin. Can tell.” 

Ava pulls the underside of the sandwich back with her fingers to check how done they are and comes back swearing, shaking her hand. “Argh. Always do that.” 

“Don’t have a spatula or something?” 

“Of course I do. I’m just stupid.” She flips them with her fingers again, shakes them. “Ow.” 

“Be careful, Ava, Jesus!” 

“I know, I know,” she says, getting plates down. “So anyways, Jay Junior. We were like, ‘Okay, so we should write up this job description and look for other people from the college wanting to go more into the business element, and then we were like “Durr.” She starts to reach for the pan again.

“Ava, wait,” Ian says, jumping off the couch. He looks for a spatula, settles for a fork. He stabs the fork into one sandwich, then the other, putting them on plates. “Don’t burn yourself over a grilled cheese sandwich.” He bumps her hip. 

“My hero,” she says. Winks. “Anyway, do you get what I’m getting at? Maybe you could be Jay Junior. Or if you don’t want to be Jay Junior maybe you can help us find someone. But honestly, you do lots of extra work already. It would be a pretty clean transition.” 

Ian clears his throat. He fights a smile. “Would,” he begins, enjoying the hopeful look on Ava’s face. “Would you _have_ to call me Jay Junior, though? Because I could see you keeping that forever, and I’m not sure I could–” 

His breath is pressed out as Ava hugs him tight. “I knew it! I knew it!” She grins ear to ear. “This is such the best! I’m so happy.” She grabs the sandwiches and follows him to the couch. 

Ian smiles, holds his plate, watches Ava as she begins to eat. “How come you liked the skulls the best?” Ian asks. “From the pellets. Why’d you put them on your windowsill?” 

Ava chews, puts her hand over her mouth, “I guess,” she drops her hand, swallows. “I guess it’s just that I’ve always liked the brain. How we can’t see it. When I was a kid I would feel my face and my head before I went to sleep. I thought it was cool how you can kind of feel your skeleton under your skin, but can’t feel the rest. The skull is cool because there’s so much inside, your brain remembering, telling everything else in your body what to do. It’s so tough and so vulnerable at the same time. Then there’s this heavy thing all around it that protects it. I just like the thought of that. That kind of protection. It soothed me. Still does.” 

Ian picks up his sandwich, starts to chew. He can feel his jaw, his teeth, breaking it down. He can feel this socks brush against the rug under his feet, nerves recognizing how it feels. He shifts on the couch without thinking about it. “I like that idea,” he says. “Never thought about it that way.” 

Ava shrugs, little smile. “You’ve never been a creepy eight year old growing up in a funeral home, either.”

Ian’s laugh surprises him. “I guess not,” he says. He chews, looks around Ava’s house. He can see her bedroom off to the side, a mess of blankets and pillows, pile of books on the bedside table. He looks back. “You were happy though? Happy growing up like that?” 

Ava brushes the crumbs from her hands. “I was! People think I shouldn’t be. Or like it was something I had to suffer though. I liked it. I always thought it was really interesting. You know that faint chair?” 

“Yeah?” 

“That’s where I used to sit and read. Sometimes do my homework. My dad made me wear a mask a lot, but I didn’t care. I really liked being with him. I liked watching him. I never thought about having any other job.”

Ian sets his plate down. “Wow,” he says, eyes on the floor, clears his throat. “Yeah, that sounds...sounds great.” His brain draws an image of camouflage, then erases it.“It’s cool you always knew what you wanted. Not many people know what they want like that.” 

Ava shrugs. “This just feels like what I’m supposed to be. I thought this or a doctor. The more I thought about it, the more I knew it was just going to be a version of this, just backwards.” She hums a little tune under her breath. “It’s fun to know what you want. Even if it changes.” Her hand smacks Ian’s knee. “Let’s go,” she says. “See what we can see.” 

*

It’s so cold the outside door lock almost sticks as Ian pushes his key in. He’s about to knock on the window of the dry cleaners because Mrs. Patel is still sorting through bags, but it finally opens. 

He breathes into his hands as he walks upstairs, rubs his hands together. He takes out his keys, but he hears Mickey call out “Unlocked.” 

He opens the door, toes his boots off. “You know,” he says, taking his coat off, “You shouldn’t say shit like that. What if I’d been–” 

He looks up. Mickey is at the table, resting on his forehead. His laptop is open nearby. There’s a glass of jack on ice. Ian can smell he snuck a cigarette or three, the living room window is open. 

“Grades came in,” Mickey mumbles to the table. 

Ian can’t move. He can’t. Feet are stuck to the floor. He wants to fly over to Mickey, grab him, fly out the window. “Mickey,” he says. 

Mickey doesn’t say anything. Ian sighs. “Mickey,” he says again. His legs finally move, shaking their way over to him. Ian watches his hands come out to fall on Mickey’s shoulders. His fingers move slowly, rubbing his shoulders, pressing on his back. He likes this, Ian knows, likes how it grounds him. 

The laptop screen is dark. Must have gone to sleep a while ago. How long has he been here like this? Ian can’t remember when they last talked today. 

“Mickey,” Ian says again. “Mickey, what happened.” 

Mickey sits up, reaches back. Ian finds his hand and sits beside him. Mickey’s eyes are on the table. He turns the glass around in his hand. Mickey meets Ian’s eyes. Ian knows, then, that he probably poured that glass and let it sit. He barely looks buzzed. Ian knows, then, why he snuck the cigarettes, why he–

“I passed,” Mickey said, throat catching. “Ian, I fucking passed.” 

*  
It takes a while to transition, get things settled. Ian’s one year work anniversary comes and goes. Ian realizes he’s gone three years, now, without a serious episode. Even with the new doses, the shaking has subsided quite a bit. It’s a relief. 

It still happens sometimes. Like today, when he’s bringing the little cups and plates from an intake into the kitchen to wash. They shake, just a little, but enough to let a cup slip through his fingers and hit the floor. 

“Shit,” Ian whispers under his breath. The cup has broken into three large, sharp pieces, both violets cracked. 

“It’s okay,” a voice says. 

“Shit!” Ian jumps. “Hey Matt.” 

“Sorry,” he says, standing, crouching down to pick the pieces up. “I should know better.” 

“It’s okay,” Ian says. “I’m sorry about breaking it. Hands are shaky today.” 

Matt’s face is wide, open. He doesn’t talk much. Ian’s hardly heard him speak. _Just keeps to himself_ Jay said. _He’s like that with everybody. Don’t take it personally_ Ava said. Ian brings him paperwork to sign, relays messages, but that’s about all. Even the sound of his voice sounds different. This is probably more than he’s ever said. 

“They get shaky a lot?” Matt asks. “Is it from the stuff you have to take? The stuff for the depression thing?” 

Ian nods. “I have bipolar disorder, which is different, but similar, yeah.” 

Matt gestures to the table, refills his coffee mug. “I keep going off stuff,” he says, reaching for the sugar. “I go to the doctor and what he gives me doesn’t help. I just stop.” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. It’s always a bit hard. For him, even. Need to tread carefully. “There are a lot of different kinds to try,” he says. “Not everything is right for everyone. It doesn’t mean it’s impossible. It doesn’t mean they’ll all fail you. Some just take time to work right.” 

Matt looks into his coffee. “Maybe I’ll go back. I don’t know.”

“Matt,” Ian says, trying to chose his words carefully. “There’s someone who can help you. The worst is to start it. Not fight the help. Give it time. It feels better.” 

He nods. “I guess so.” 

The stop talking. Ian’s just about to get up from the table when Matt starts to speak. “Our dad died when Ava was 14. They were really close. She’s always been the one most interested in this. You probably know that by now. She took it hard, but somehow it made her even more focused, if that makes sense. He’d been sick a long time. They had a lot of time to talk. Jay was 19. Already in mortuary school. I don’t think he cared one way or another about the business. He thought a lot about our dad, though. There was something in the way he worked, like it would bring him back?” 

“What about you?” 

Matt looks up. “16. The perfect age to be terrible to everyone. I only cared about getting my license so I could take Townies out. Not even to be with anyone, just take them somewhere outside the city. Somewhere I could think. That’s what I wanted to do. Get away. Find somewhere to think.”

Matt looks up at Ian. There’s something in his eyes. Something Ian can feel deep inside himself, familiar. 

“Then something happened,” he said. “I just sort of slipped into this...something. Felt frozen. Didn’t want to get up. Couldn’t get up. My mom would come in to my room, just sit. Bring me food sometimes, but mostly just sit. I missed school, but she figured out how to get me excused for a while. Read to me. It was the kind of thing I wouldn’t have ever thought would happen. My mom, reading to me like I was kid. Just lying in my bed, not wanting to get up.” 

“It’s confusing,” Ian says, voice low. He clears his throat, “Confusing when it starts to happen.” 

Matt nods. “Eventually I get up. Go through it all. Start moving through school again. I get closer to graduation. I don’t feel so bad. Don’t have times that bad. My mom, though. Something changed in the way my mom and I got along. Stronger. I felt like we had ESP or something.” He laughs a little under his breath. “I don’t think it was about the depression. We never really talked about it again, but she knew sometimes I needed to rest, and made sure I did. I didn’t feel weak. It was just nice to have that. That kind of feeling where someone knows how you feel without having to say anything.” 

Ian nods. “It is.” 

“She knew,” Matt says. “She knew I wanted something else. She knew I didn’t want to do this with my life. I had plans for myself. In the end it didn’t matter. She got in the wreck and that was that. Two weeks later I had my diploma, and two months later I’m in mortuary school.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. 

Matt shrugs. “Did what I had to do,” he says. “If we didn’t step up we’d lose it all. It’s not just doing all this. It’s our house, too. If we lost it, we wouldn’t even have a place to live. So we hired a few people. We were just kids. Jay was 21 by then. Somehow he balanced 21 year old crap with becoming really interested in the majority of the business stuff. As you can see with his filing system, some early 20s behavior has remained in place.”

Ian chuckles. “It all makes sense now.” 

Matt laughs too, then stills. “Things with my mom were hard. Jay did the embalming, and Ava helped. It was the first time she did that. I think, anyway. They both kept saying it was important. They didn’t want any of the other people to touch her. You could hear them sobbing all the way upstairs. They kept telling me to come down,” he says. He swallows, clears his throat, shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. 

Ian sees his hand reach out. He should be embarrassed, right? But Matt reaches over, gives it a squeeze. “Thanks,” he says. 

Matt looks around the room. He stretches in his chair. “Do we have to break down or is that done already? We took him over this morning, I know. Is there another one in the morning?”

“No,” Ian says. “No, I gotta break it down.” He gestures with his head to the cups in the sink. “I’ll do these first.” 

Matt is quiet again while Ian washes the cups, dries them, puts them back in the cabinet. 

“Thanks,” Ian says, nodding. “I’ll go clean up.” 

He’s halfway out the door when he hears the chair move back. “I can help,” Matt says. 

Ian isn’t sure what to say. He settles on “Thanks.” 

“I’ll do flowers.” 

“Cool.” 

Ian moves the chairs, rolls the lint brush on each cushion. He almost thinks he can hear Matt breathe. 

“I’ve always wanted to move somewhere warm,” Matt says. “Somewhere away from the long winters here where nothing is even alive. Like, these flowers are from somewhere else. Not here. Not yet.” He touches one of the lilies.“I smell these in my sleep,” he says “I never realized other people’s houses didn’t smell this way until I went to a birthday party in kindergarten. I smell these things on myself wherever I go. It’s been so much stronger the last few years. I smell it. That and furniture polish and sometimes embalming fluid. I’m so tired of that smell.” 

Ian sits in a chair, faces him. Matt doesn’t sit. He looks at the casket platform. No display casket today. “I don’t get it,” he says. “I’ve never been able to understand that. Embalming. I had to learn it. Of course I did. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with it. I try to. It’s not like I refuse to do it. I know why people want it. I can go through the motions. But this was never what I wanted. I never wanted it, so I’m not good at it. Can’t even pretend to be, anymore.” 

Ian looks at the casket platform too. Looks down at his hands, his arms. 

“People aren’t meant to stay one way forever,” Matt says. “But people want to see other people frozen in time with this. They want them to stay just like that. We have all these tricks to make them look like that, but it’s not like its the same. Even if they go underground, they look the same.” He pulls the sagging flowers out of the vases. “Life’s not like that. When people stop, they just stop. Even when they die, they’re supposed to keep changing. We are supposed to keep changing. That’s the whole point.” 

Ian stands up, meets Matt at the flowers, starts pulling out the wilted ones too. “Is that why you wanna leave?” 

Matt breathes deep, then rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “I just feel like I’m running out of time, Ian. Time to do something else. I stay any longer and I’ll never get out.” He peels some paper off one of the arrangements and passes it to Ian. “You ever feel like you had a plan? Like, a specific plan for what you wanted to be? Ava had it for this, but I never did. But I saw something. Something I wanted to be.” 

Ian swallows. His arms itch.“What did you want to be?” 

Matt shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late for that. The important thing is that I feel like I could do something, be something, but it can’t be here. Not anymore.” 

Ian swallows again. “Are you scared?” 

“To start over?” Matt asks. “Not really. I see it like a whole second life. I just have to start it.” 

Ian finishes with his vases, wraps the dead and wilted flowers in the paper to throw away. “I’m glad for you,” he says. “I really am.” He meets his eyes. Holds them. 

Matt reaches for the Ian’s flower pile, gestures to the doorway. “I gotta go. You okay to finish up?” 

“Sure,” Ian says, but he doesn’t move. 

Matt holds the soggy flowers in his arms like a bouquet, waiting to be carried over a threshold. “But hey,” he says. “It’s okay to like it, Ian,” he says. “Here with my brother and sister and Mickey and everything. It’s a good life.” He shrugs, slowly, almost sadly. “It’s just not mine.” 

There’s a wave as he leaves. For a minute, Ian just stands there, frozen. When he comes to, he picks up the lint brush, keeps moving over the cushions. He finishes the rest quickly, turns the lights off. 

He stands in the dark until his eyes adjust. It’s very quiet in this room. He can hear Jay’s voice downstairs, his laugh, another laugh. He heads downstairs, passes Jay’s office, slowing down to wave. Jay is laughing on the phone, but manages to raise a fist and a hearty “Jay Junior!” Ian laughs, flips him off. “Junior!” Jay yells down the hall as Ian walks out the back door. 

Ian breathes in. All he can smell is snow, ice, trees. 

*

It’s a morning, a morning where the light comes in and paints the closet yellow, the room yellow, the bed. Ian hears his phone beep, just once, quietly. He taps it, looks over at Mickey, still sleeping on his stomach. He opens his pillbox, pokes around and finds the white oval. Opens the water bottle, pop pop and he’s done. He slowly lies back down again, trying not to jiggle the bed. 

“That never works,” Mickey says into his pillow. 

Ian rolls on his side, smiling. “Hey, at least I try,” he says, dragging his fingers down Mickey’s back. He lowers his head, kisses his shoulder softly, just once. 

“Mmm,” Mickey hums. He rolls onto his back. “Morning.” 

“Morning.” Ian smiles, drops his lips to Mickey’s. Kisses once, twice. 

Mickey smiles back. “You startin’ somethin’ or we getting ready for work?”

“Ummm,” Ian says. “Both? Both I guess?” 

Mickey laughs, turns on his side, flings a leg over Ian. “Ambitious.” 

Ian kisses him again. “Always.” 

They both smile when they meet again. Ian’s hand begins to slide down Mickey’s leg, and Mickey’s leg begins to move higher. A sound rises. It is a quiet sound, a sound heard underwater, a tiny rock falling out of a pocket, somewhere. Ian holds onto that sound. He doesn’t know who made that sound. It’s a sound that is just theirs, just like this. 

They are naked. The sheets smell like their bodies, the detergent, the sun. Ian holds Mickey to him, cheek sliding against the stubble on his face, sliding to his collarbone, pressing in with his hands, pulling him tighter, feeling him rise. Their hands fall soft, slow. There is a quiet as they glide, practiced hands sliding here, there. There is no rush to this, no pull. There is only the sun sliding over them, revealing everything they are, everything they could be. There is Mickey’s light breath, quick and quiet against his throat, so warm it makes Ian close his eyes. 

This bed. This bed in this room, this room in this apartment, this apartment in this neighborhood. One day Ian walked up to a big house in this neighborhood and didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know anything. Only knew his arms always hurt and he was still scared a lot of the time. He only knew he felt alive, a little bit more, when Mickey looked over, when Ian stood on the sidewalk, watching him smoke, finding his eyes. Green on blue on green. 

Mickey’s mouth is open as his back arches, and Ian’s shaking chest curls in to meet him. Mickey smiles as he guides Ian off, pulling him onto his side again. “Hey,” he says. 

“What?” Ian says. 

“How much time we got?” 

“Probably not enough to go again,” Ian says, trying to catch his breath. He checks his phone for the time. “Ava didn’t text or anything, but should probably go soon. I know there’s a lot going on tomorrow - gotta get ready.” 

Mickey is quiet for a minute. “Okay,” he says, voice louder. Serious. “Okay, sit up.” 

Ian does. His eyes feel wide, but not like that. He wraps his arms around his knees. “What’s going on? You okay?” 

Mickey chews his lip. It takes a minute for him to meet Ian’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

Ian nods. “Sure. Ava’s a good boss. I like how much you like it there. It’s–” 

“Not what I mean,” Mickey says, quietly. He doesn’t look up. His lap is covered with a sheet, leg sticking out.“I mean, like,” he gestures back and forth. “Like want to do _this._ Us.” 

Ian swallows. “Yeah,” he feels like he can’t breathe. 1.2.3.4. “I thought–” 1.2. “I thought we both wanted to. I thought we–” 1. 2. Wait. 1.2. Oh God. 

“Wait,” Mickey says. “No, hold on. I’m not–” He reaches for Ian’s hands, squeezes. “Take a breath. Breathe a sec.” Ian can see his eyes. So bright. Mickey knows. Knows him. Knows this. How hard it is to breathe. 

Ian lets his breath out, scoots closer to Mickey. “Okay,” he says, softly. “I’m okay.” 

“Okay?” Mickey says, eyebrows up. He looks down, adjusts his jaw. “Look,” he says. “Look, Ian. I want this. Remember that time I said I wanted this? Like, wanted all of your shit? Like, not just love and sex and stuff, but like...do you know what I’m talking about?” 

Ian nods fast. “I do. I remember that.” He swallows hard. “I think about that all the time.” Mickey’s eyes drop, so Ian catches him. “Mickey. All. The time.”

Blue on green on blue. A small voice, gruff, scared. “But then how come you don’t say anything back to me like that? I know you love me and stuff, but I guess...” he trails off. 

Ian stares at him. Adrenaline legs. “I didn’t think-” he says.“I didn’t think-” 

“I meant it,” Mickey says, slowly. “I mean it.” 

Ian’s hand comes up, slowly. He smoothes his hand on the back of Mickey’s head. _Trust me._ “I mean it too,” he says. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I want you like that. Just everything like that.” 

“You’re sure? You in? Sometimes I get freaked out, man. Get freaked out that you’ll -"

“No,”Ian says, firmly. "No, I promise I won’t do that. Not ever. I’m in. I’m in, Mickey. All in.” 

Mickey nods. “Okay,” he says. “So this is–I don’t know what just happened. Good though.” He laughs a little, and when he turns his head he swipes his hand against his nose, and Ian can see one, two, maybe three, falling. He sniffs hard, blinks them away. 

The heat from the radiator hisses out into the room. Ian closes his eyes. 

Mickey stands, stretches, looks out the window. His back is wide and pale, and Ian knows every inch of it, every curve. Ian breathes in and out, letting his lungs expand, probably past the count of 4. He thinks he could count higher, now. Now that he’s used to walking around, talking, laughing, even. Breath in his lungs, shaking out in the air as he runs, still, sometimes. 

That winter he was afraid. It feels like a long time ago. He held something precious in his hand, then, but didn’t really know it was there. It was a petal, maybe. A button, a key. All he saw were his arms, and the failure still lodged there. Snow under his feet didn’t matter. Cold air didn’t matter. That piece of newspaper he almost tossed aside because he was mad at Fiona. The winter was too long, then. Spring took too long to come. He didn’t see tulips. Maybe he wasn’t looking. Maybe he forgot. Maybe because he smelled lilies instead, moving from place to place, trying to find a spot to land, to rest. A robin maybe, hidden somewhere in a dead Christmas tree tossed in a backyard, waiting to be seen. 

He’ll watch, now. Watch for all of it. The grass and the tulips and the daffodils. See the trees come alive again, leaf by leaf, the air crisp, but smelling sweet. Sweeter and sweeter, warmer and warmer, everything coming out again, coming alive. Everything that fell down with its eyes closed, falling asleep, suddenly woken up. Everything sleeping in a bud or a bulb or some kind of root. Something waking up, remembering what to do. Maybe even a little brighter, this time. 

Mickey stretches again, arms rising and falling, a sigh. The sunlight makes a line around him, a glow. It’s been a year. Just over a year, and here he is. Ian’s arms are full, his palm is open, always open. This is his new life. Something he would have never had, but now, here he is. His life is this. When he climbs the steps and when the door opens, he’s home. When he holds Mickey, it’s like he’s holding himself, their breath back and forth, the same breath. When his mind begins to freeze up, Mickey is there, just like this, the sun against him, waiting. Waiting to pull him in, keep him warm. 

Mickey pauses, leans closer to the window, turns. “Looks like things are really melting over there,” he says, and smiles. “Can see the grass. Spring’s comin’. About time.”


End file.
